Unlikely
by Ravensara
Summary: Following the conclusion of Preston & Child's Helen Trilogy, Special Agent Pendergast is unable to put himself at ease until he has successfully exorcised the demons from his past. Delving deep within his own subconscious, he unwittingly attracts the attention of a mysterious stranger who serves first to distract him, and then to reassure him of his place in the universe.
1. Chapter 1

1

Foul weather had been devastating the country. A rash of tornadoes in the Southwest and Midwest states had everyone on edge, heat waves were destroying crops in the mid-Atlantic states and sending the unwary to emergency rooms, wildfires ravaged the west, it seemed like it would never stop raining down south, and New England had been suffering from floodwaters. Without a current case to keep him preoccupied, the tall, slender man had sent his household staff and ward upstate to relax in the mountains. He had indicated it was a precautionary measure based upon future weather predictions, though in actuality he strongly desired some time to himself.

Within the dark recesses of a once opulent mansion on Riverside Drive, he poked listlessly at the remains of an unseasonable fire that had been set to help draw the dankness and humidity from the stale air. He was a man of nearly unfathomable inner strength according to his few and carefully chosen friends, an intense mystery wound tighter than an eight day clock if you asked those he worked for and with, an indomitably fierce protector and defender of true justice those who managed his more mundane household affairs would admit…but had you asked him yourself, just as he stood resting his forehead against a forearm propped against the mantel edge, a wrought iron poker dangling uselessly from his right hand as his pale grey, almost silvery eyes focused inward to stare at nothing…then he would likely only reply that he was tired and perhaps no more so than any other man if you happened to push the issue a little.

He had been seeking the source of a leak in an upstairs bathroom, and so his shirtsleeves had been pushed past his elbows and his fair hair drooped a little, spidery strands caressing the tops of his faint eyebrows. It wasn't that he needed to attempt a plumbing or carpentry repair by himself—he was wealthy enough to afford any contractor's ridiculous fees—but he'd been feeling useless of late and needed to occupy his body whilst his mind wandered, lest he get himself into trouble by instead developing some detestable habit just to fill a physical void.

It had been difficult to ignore the sherry. He was fond of it as an occasional treat—no more, but in his current state of mental disarray he did not trust himself not to imbibe too much. He was well aware that exercise would normally help to bring him back around, but suspected he might push himself too far not only to reassure himself of his own prowess, but also as a means of self-imposed punishment. Not known as an especially emotional man by any means, and something of a meditation master and pinnacle of self-control, this did not mean that he did not feel. The sheer jumble of emotions that had assaulted him lately had worked to smother his senses until he could almost claim to feel nothing at all…and yet there he stood, still for so long the embers before him had expired entirely, and he was able to make out fine strings of miniscule ashes arising in ghostly coils as whispers of weather drifted feather-light down the brick chimney and past the heavy iron flue.

Lifting his head, he smiled faintly at the sensation of fresh air against his warm forehead, and then addressed an alabaster bust beside the exposed bricking above the mantel as, _"Lenore."_ A single chuckle that almost sounded like a soft cough moved his shoulders before he sighed. Within his dark and gloomy manse he did not normally feel so melancholy. He actually preferred cool shadows and quiet to bright sunshine and loud music or barking dogs, laughing children, or what have you.

From elsewhere issued a groan that ended in a wooden squeak. The man remained utterly still, apparently unaffected, but inwardly tense and focused. Had he ever heard the house make such a sound before? It sounded as though it had come from the attic, and sure enough he detected a hoarse wind gust growing in pressure as it sought entry to his domain. His eyes closed and he exhaled. Another late-day storm sliding in from the west. Sandbags already lined his property in an effort to divert rivers of rain flow. Alone, under the circumstances, a part of him relished the notion of some kind of challenge, even if it proved to be nothing more than an attempt to minimize water damage to his home.

It had felt good to tense for just a second. Felt wonderful to empty his mind of Helen, of Viola, of even his own twin sons for only a moment. He'd felt in control. Of late his life had been spiraling out of control. It took a lot, he mused, to really jar him, to really rattle his cage. He turned his head, slouching slightly, viewing the vastness of his dwelling with fresh eyes, seeing it as a stranger might, an ordinary fellow off the street. The strength he derived from the comforts of eccentricity now absent. Subconsciously he knew he was methodically seeking the fresh chinks in his psychological armor and attempting swift repairs to it by any means possible…even if it meant minor alterations to his personality, his very lifestyle.

_Vincent_, he thought abruptly. _What if I called him and suggested an unlikely meet up? Surely he would enjoy a baseball game in the flesh, or, or…pints in a local pub! _His posture sagged. How ridiculous! If anything, a "guy's day out" or "male bonding" diversion would only arouse suspicion, provoke questions. No, he needed to be alone. Needed time to sort things out, lick his wounds. His teeth clenched. The idea that someone of his stature and training might require a period in which to cower or sulk until the last rumble of thunder had become lost to memory….

He strode uncertainly toward a high-backed chair upholstered in aged velvet and pivoted slowly as he sank down into it. In his mind he saw himself again at his desk in his apartment, the instruments of his demise laid out before him, nothing for it but to determine a potency and a when. He had felt very certain that he was ready for it, though not so certain as to what might come after. He had encountered so much strangeness in his lifetime that a religious notion of an afterlife seemed altogether possible, and yet organized religion was not something he cared to entertain inside his very analytical mind. It had its purpose, and he his own. Should it ever be of service to him, he knew where he could find it.

He would not allow himself to relive that one moment, the turning point where she had interrupted him. That tantalizing flower of fine womanhood who seemed genuinely to care, the Lady Maskelene, a wonderful package of contradictions that yet harmonized so beautifully, arriving in the nick of time…to be turned away. She had, he admitted, undoubtedly saved his life, but…in the episode he played and replayed, usually at night when all he desired was blissful, senseless sleep, it was not she who burst through his door to find him at his lowest…but Helen. Strange angel he'd thought he'd known so well. Gone forever. Like his own brother. Like….

Snapping from his reverie, he grew aware of his hunger. It was almost pleasant because he had been without appetite for so long, eating only because he knew he must and not because he actually cared to. He found himself in the kitchen, a large, echoing space with a vaulted ceiling dangling spotless high-end pots and pans, cold grey light seeking to penetrate the many narrow windows. Rain striped the old glass that was already wavy with slight imperfections. He didn't recall the journey, and so knew his body was attempting to care for itself despite his darkly over-saturated mind. The stainless steel and glass door opened to reveal garish packaging designed to attract simpler minds. Nothing appealed to him. But he loitered there anyway, enjoying the feel of the chilled air drifting across his clammy, bare arms and seeking entrance through the neck of his shirt.

Instead he found the sherry and poured himself a healthy splash. He swirled it close to his face to watch the viscous glaze it imparted to the crystal before sliding back into itself like an ocean wave caressing a sandy shore. The bouquet was pleasing. He tilted it back, let the liquid impart its very soft warmth to his lips, but did not drink, tasted what had managed to seep into his mouth, and then set the glass down and walked out of the room.

He desperately required true, deep, restful, restorative sleep. He had been fighting its urges, and those closest to him had commented politely upon his haggard countenance. Perhaps, he now realized, it was not actual sleep he craved, for he had become so lax lately, so languid and passive whilst absorbed in his thoughts. No, it could not be actual sleep that he needed…but _dreams_. Of course! Nature's way of helping him sort through the emotional mess his mind had become, trying desperately to deal with and satisfactorily resolve multiple problems simultaneously. He had been fooling himself by latching onto absurd patterns in efforts to make sense of what he was apparently too close to. A nap then, yes…yes. No…it wouldn't work. He'd been sleeping so poorly of late, wasting valuable dreamtime attempting to control the flow of his thoughts to avoid the worst memories…and the nightmares his imagination would spawn from them. Perhaps it was time to relinquish the comfort of control and allow his weary mind free will, to stand in the onslaught of the nightmares that would surely consume him and face down each one until he'd regained his former confidence and composure.

In the comfort of a bed that smelled of him, in a room he had darkened, though not entirely, the man lay mostly on his left side, painted by never ending strokes of grey rain magnified upon his body and the contents of the room by the weak artificial light on the outskirts of his property. He lay still only because he lacked the motivation to make himself more comfortable. He attempted to will himself to sleep by imagining he had amnesia and knew absolutely nothing of his past whatsoever. A groaning gust of wind returned him to full consciousness. He rolled onto his back, concentrating on his heartbeats, willing them slower and slower still. A muscle spasm twitched his thigh. He tried his right side, strangely recalling that while he fell asleep faster if lying on his right, he tended to entertain more dreams if he lay upon his left. _Must have to do with blood pooling into one hemisphere of the brain_, he thought. _My brain is constantly being rewired by circumstance to maximum efficiency, and I must avoid the consequences of giving in to shock. I must not adopt counterproductive measures designed to spare myself in the line of duty. Or the line of my life_, he thought, unaware that his thinking had slowed with huge gaps of nothingness between ideas. _I suppose it isn't a very straight line…._ But he saw that it stretched back into a tunnel like an abandoned pneumatic line deep, deep down beneath the city. Down through the layers of fossil-rich earth. Down and back far away through time. The walls brown only so far as he could see them, and he thought they were the color of drying blood. A bloodline. A heartbeat. If he turned around, what would he see then? If the past was dark…surely there was a light source…because he could make out the color and texture of the walls very near him…rough carved and predominantly brown…which he could only be aware of this far underground if there was some source of light behind him. Meager at best, but some sort of illumination. So he turned slowly to see the soft glow of yellow from a moth-tormented glass and metal lantern hanging from the center pole of the canvas tent. The air was oppressive and filled with the sound of leaves lashing against each other in the balmy breezes, the occasional whine of an insect annoyingly close to his head.

_Helen!_ he thought impulsively, his gaze sweeping the tent, the lightweight collapsible furnishings, a small trunk containing their clothes…. "Helen?" he called, ducking out into the night. The sky was a deep gemstone blue, almost black, the horizon itself barely discernable yet noticeably pale. Was it pre-dawn or just after dusk? Was she preparing for herself a nourishing hot beverage or had she stolen outside to relieve herself in the latrine? "Helen?" he tried louder. It seemed like a storm was approaching or perhaps skirting by. The silhouettes of nearby jungle foliage whipped back and forth in a frenzy. He remained still and listened. Cool moisture spitted against his skin. It would rain at any second. He raised a hand above his brow, shielding his eyes. "Helen?"

A table moved slightly, one edge lifted by a strong wind gust. Something soft and lightly scratchy blew past his leg. He stared into nothing, willing something to alert him, and then he heard the groan…of a distant lion.

Margo clutched at his elbow. "Do you think you can stop it?"

He had lifted the rifle from his side and broken it to load it. "Of course. I hunted lions once in Africa. A single shot between the eyes…." What he'd thought was a fresh cartridge was only a tube of rolled paper. As the creature closed in, he quickly patted down his pockets and glanced about, seeing only dark shapes and shadows within the unlit museum.

"There it is!" she gasped, her grip tightening.

He glanced up to witness a shock of bright rust red in the flash from a sudden lightning bolt. "Now why was it dyed red?"

"Shoot it! Shoot it!"

He snatched his arm away, irritated at how the hysterical woman was jostling him. The roll of paper had unspooled into a long curl. He lifted it closer for inspection in the darkness and thought he could make out an emblem like a stylized eagle clutching a wreath. _Nazis!_ he thought. This is _sabotage!_ Within the wreath however he saw a pyramid instead of the expected swastika, and then he knew it was not an eagle at all but a phoenix, and the disc was no wreath but an outline of the moon. "It's just one of their experiments," he told Miss Green. "None of them based upon any sane principles whatsoever."

"Whose experiments?"

"The Nazis."

"In the jungle?" she asked.

"Yes…they were living in the jungle. A small, German community deep within the jungle…."

"But what is that thing?" she asked, pointing toward a moving shadow.

He sighed and lowered the gun. "A mere figment of my own imagination, I fear."

"Are you going to shoot it?"

"No. No need. If I'm to figure out any of this mess, then what I need to do is confront it directly." He took a few steps toward where he believed the beast to be, and then heard an agonized shriek behind him. Despite the darkness, he could rather clearly make out Margo on the floor, with the mutated beast crouching over her, scrabbling excitedly at her body while the terrifying maw made short work of her neck. "Ah…that was not the outcome I had hoped for," he intoned in his soft, educated, buttery New Orleans drawl. He watched the horror for a few moments, expecting the beast to confront him. When it merely lay where it had crouched, content to have found what it craved within the woman's skull and noisily making short work of it, he finally stepped forward to tap it roughly where he thought its shoulder should be. "Excuse me. I know who you are."

The beast ignored him, smacking and crunching and stinking quite a bit as well.

"If you were of a right mind, you would not have mauled this woman at all. You actually know her."

The thing farted, and the tall, pale man was forced backward, seeking a handkerchief through which he hoped to mute some of the olfactory horror.

He heard a slight sound between rumbles of thunder and stepped backward a few feet as though the odor was growing worse rather than dissipating. He leaned heavily against a Plexiglas display case with a sigh. "What are you doing here?"

A voice replied uncertainly, "I've been here…all my life."

He turned and crouched, extending a hand into the darkness between the encased sarcophagus and the wall, and a small hand reached tentatively toward him, the pale fingers waving like antennae, before the rest of the figure emerged enough that he could make out the frightened features. "Who put you here?"

"He did," the child told him, pointing.

Standing slowly, the man turned, but saw only the grandfather clock with its featureless face, the heavy brass pendulum swinging with a faint tock. "What time is it?" he asked softly.

"Eighteen," replied the child.

Glancing down he saw that what he'd thought was a young girl was in actuality a boy with very fair features and frightened pale eyes. _Is it myself?_ he wondered, dropping to one knee. "Are you eighteen?"

"No, sir," the boy answered, drawing near him but never making contact.

"Where are your parents?"

The boy pointed downward, and the man knew he referred to the family crypts beneath the house.

"And where is your brother?"

"But I am here, sir."

The clock struck the hour and loud, low chimes made the entire room seem to spin.

Now the child took his hand and looked up at him with concern. "You should sit down, sir."

"Yes, yes…I suppose I could." He allowed the boy to lead him through the mansion that felt peculiarly empty. "What is the year?"

"It is the year when the pigeons fly back home again, sir."

"The pigeons?"

As they strolled a long hallway, the child pointed up at some of the framed prints hung upon the peeling fabric that concealed the horsehair plaster walls. His silvery eyes made out scenes of strange horrors, classic nudes attempting to escape wild-eyed monsters, Kronos devouring his own offspring, an Audubon print of a dead crow with its feet in the air, the pale rectangles where art used to hang, and one gaping hole frigid air seemed to pour out of.

The man discerned an exceptionally potent horror in the very blackness of that jagged hole, though his normal senses detected nothing but the ghostly wisps of icy condensation that swirled and evaporated before his eyes. For some odd reason, he felt it imperative that he not allow himself to cross directly in its path as though it was in actuality the end of the barrel of a very large gun.

The boy tugged at him with irritation. "Come along, then. Your sherry awaits you in the sitting room."

Unable to tear his gaze from the strange hole, he heard his voice emerge as a cracked whisper.

"I'm not waiting, then," the boy decided, but the man refused to release his hand.

_Get a hold of yourself_, he was telling himself, attempting to force the paralyzing fear from his mind. Thus, he would not let go of the child's hand.

The boy tugged, grunting, trying to use his free hand to pry the man's fingers loose. "If you don't let go, I'm telling Mother!"

Mother? He knew then that the hole exuded the breath of the grave. Their parents were down there and they could most certainly hear them! "No, no…don't do that."

"Oh, what do you care?" The child grumbled, leaning backward but getting nowhere. "They always believe you and never me! It's always been you!"

He glanced downward and saw young Diogenes withdrawing a knife from a concealed sheath beneath his sock. His brother met his eyes and smiled amiably. "We'll have it fixed in just a moment, won't we?"

Snatching his hand away before it was removed from his body, he flattened himself against the far wall. The breath of the hole was like a storm now, whistling and causing the entire wall to heave like a set of lungs. Artwork fell. Glass shattered. Frames broke. Diogenes was sucked out into blackness, but as he watched, his form grew redder and redder until it glowed and formed a tail like a comet. The wind ceased abruptly and the man stepped forward, breathless, trying to make out what his brother had become as he shrank into the darkness. Hands upon the cold, damp wall, he dared to gaze into the depths of the grave until a flash of lightning showed him his own features and he leaped backward from what was actually a mirror.

Again the clock sounded, low and mournful, and the man ran through the house. Doors slammed behind him. Each room was empty or held only a very few worn or decayed items. "I am not afraid," he repeated, running as hard and fast as he could. "I am not afraid." _Then, why am I running?_ He halted in one of the front rooms they had used as a receiving parlor. Beyond the windows was the front porch. The carpet was threadbare, the furnishings missing. A very small woodstove painted white stood between two windows. The only sound was his labored breathing. _I must be breathing loudly in my sleep_, he reasoned, and concentrated on slowing his heart again, hands on his knees. _It is storming outside and I am in an agitated state of mind. _Nearly sheer curtains swayed, and somewhere he could hear the faint tinkling sound of someone's metal wind chimes. _It's probably rain_, he thought, trying to tune in to what was going on in the room he knew he slept in as well as the room he currently occupied many miles to the southwest.

It wasn't often that he could dream and simultaneously be aware of activity in the vicinity of his sleeping body, but it wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, either. His ability to focus his mind during meditation only seemed to have enhanced his lucid dreaming abilities. "I don't want to be lucid," he whispered, nearing a window and finding it wide open. They had never, ever been left wide open when he had lived there as a child—especially at night. The screens seemed to be missing and he marveled at the lack of mosquitoes.

_No,_ he told himself. _No details. This isn't me controlling the dream. This must play out on its own. I mustn't interfere. I am here to observe and learn._ He moved away from the window, closed his eyes and shook his head. _Not lucid, not lucid, I am not lucid_, he tried to convince himself, but the fact that he was meant he would remain that way until he woke up. He knew how to strengthen a dream interrupted, how to resume one, how to even alter the entire setting to see if the same storyline would find a way to continue playing out…but how did one relinquish control of a conscious dream? How did one resist the urge to exercise complete control?

He turned for the door, but there was none. At this he smiled. Perhaps the desire to relinquish control was enough to revert the dream back into its normal state. He turned again, his gaze drawn to the ornamental woodstove that was the only thing to look at within the room. With a sudden and loud crash every window dropped back to the sill. He jumped, his heart racing, able to hear his body breathing where it lay upon the bed in his room. Of course…_nightmares._ There were no lucid nightmares. "Just thunder," he stammered breathlessly, backing against a wall. His foot stumbled over something on the floor that resembled a wooden toy horse with wheels. Behind him, something jabbed him, and he grabbed for it. The doorknob. Grateful, he turned, twisting and pulling, except there still was no door. Fingers scrabbling along the wallpaper, the only thing he turned up was an old light switch. There were no lights to turn on, but he clicked it anyway. "Hello?" he called, pounding on the wall. It sounded hollow. "Hello? Diogenes? Mother? Father? Anyone?" He turned, hoping some item that could help him might have magically materialized, but all he saw was a strange, large hump in the carpeting, sinking into itself a little before growing still.

He felt sick inside. This was not a scenario he could control like his meditative visions. This was what he had feared when he had begun this experiment: a full-blown nightmare. "Have to face it, have to face it," he told himself, a hand to his forehead as he recalled the sudden appearance of the mirror in the hallway. "No control!" he abruptly growled, miserable with indecision. Should he attempt to wake himself, try the trick again later? He knew that attempting to wake himself often resulted in dreams in which he believed he was actually awake until some bizarre occurrence that would remind him he was still unconscious. He had to swim upward through the layers of his own psyche and force himself to resume control of his own form again. Even that could prove difficult, for the effort often resulted in sleep paralysis, leaving him unable to rise from his bed, and often drawing him back down deep into the dream world again. "How vexing," he groused, feeling within his suit for his gun and withdrawing the Les Baer. Angry, he parted his feet and took aim, deflating the weird carpet bulge. It did not bleed, shriek, nor expel vermin. It barely moved when the bullet pierced it. He walked toward it, bending to poke a finger into the black-edged hole, when the entire carpet engulfed him like a cocoon and he found himself falling through what he thought must be a massive hole in the floor.

Light flickered like a strobe, and as he fought the thick fabric that engulfed him, there came a terrible report like a cannon's roar. The man thrashed and felt himself topple, throwing himself backward at the last second to land upon a soft surface. His heart beat so fast that he chuckled. Outside there raged an awful storm, and inside his bedroom he lay partially entwined in his bed linens, his own clothing twisted about his frame uncomfortably. His breathing slowed. He had broken out in perspiration and struggled weakly against the sheets and coverings, tugging to get a sense of how to free himself from various corners and drapes. Slowly he revealed his bedraggled form and finally lay still, exhausted from his efforts, imagery from the dreams drifting to the forefront of his mind like bubbles from the depths of a swamp. The room was darker still and the rain beat sporadically against the glass as though he'd driven the mansion into a huge carwash. As he relaxed again, his body cooled until he felt the need to draw at least a portion of sheet across himself. He felt more tired than when he'd initially attempted to drift off. Sleep pulled insistently at his senses, and he eventually gave in, fighting to avoid returning to any of the scenarios he had already endured.

_Two days_, he had told them. "I shall join you in two days' time, and should I fail to appear by supper on the fifth, then you must suppose I have taken on another assignment. That being the case, I shall certainly endeavor to at least contact you." His staff had accepted his words without question, used to his peculiar habits, only Proctor allowing an eyebrow to lift in dubious fashion. To him, his trusted chauffer and bodyguard, he had offered only a crooked, tight-lipped grin and quick nod as further explanation. The man undoubtedly knew someone he might send by the place; just a quick drive down the street to make certain nothing seemed at first glance amiss. The security system was ingeniously devised, so that even when it appeared to be powered off, some aspects of it continued their surveillance, and his employer was all too aware that Proctor had the means to check it whenever he wished. Alone he would be, but by no means unaccounted for. The only way he could utterly vanish would be if he actually left the premises, paid for everything in cash, assumed a false identity, and traveled far by unknown means of conveyance.

Constance, his lovely ward, had gazed upon him steadily before he'd turned away, a slight smile upon her lips, her large eyes wide, but expressionless. Proctor on the other hand actually approached him close enough to quietly ask, "If there is any way in which I may be of service-"

To which he'd lightly touched his arm to reassure him and shook his head, resuming the asymmetrical smile.

"As you wish," the larger man said, ducking his head as he turned smartly away to climb behind the driver's seat of the elegant seafog grey automobile and start it with the key clutched within his gloved hand.

Then he woke himself with a snort.

Swinging his legs from the bedside so that the loose sheet cascaded to the floor, he ran a hand through his rumpled hair, noting the clamminess of his forehead. The walls creaked with stress. The wind uttered loud, dry whistles as it poured around lampposts, signposts, and numerous tall buildings. He turned toward a clock near the bed, but preferred not to know the hour. _Am I ill? _he wondered, applying the back of his hand to his cheek and temple, then palpating the glands beneath his jaw. _I am most likely dehydrated_, he decided, loosening his shirt so he could draw it back into place, then tugging free his belt and laying it aside in a chair near the door. The lighting in the bathroom was paltry. While he had gone to some expense to upgrade other aspects of the roomy mansion, he had done little with his own private quarters as yet, feeling comfortable surrounded by a little antique decay. Frosted, bubbled glass tulip shades extended past a mirror that featured unsilvered streaks of coppery flakes like lines of strata in exposed rock. The bulbs were weak, the light they produced nearly a dull blue grey that brought out the glow of the white enameled sink before him while relegating the rest of the tight space to dreamy shadow. Within the bespecked, imperfect mirror his skin appeared cadaverous, the irises of his eyes colorless aside from twin dark ring outlines that appeared battleship grey. He prodded his features as though he could learn something more of himself by feel. Fine wrinkles had begun to show high on his cheekbones, beneath the outer corners of his eyes, and his forehead took on the look of closed Venetian blinds more than he cared for when he tensed his muscles. He ran tepid water from the flaking chromed tap, testing the temperature with a few fingers wagged through the stream, then cupped his hands and filled them. The liquid cooled before it overflowed and felt wonderful splashed over his face. He kept his long fingers pressed to his eyelids for a moment, then reached to turn the water off with one hand while feeling for a hand cloth with the other. _Food_, he thought, and then, _no,_ _water_.

The hallway beyond was dark. The floor creaked, though he knew exactly where to tread if he desired utter silence. His shoulder brushed the wall to his right and he thought of the hallway from his dream, the one inside his childhood home, with strange art upon the walls and that terrible, gaping hole of pitch-black nothingness and strange, funereal silence. Why had he thought of his mother? Why her specifically? Was his psyche so shaken that he thought to shout out to her for comfort like the small child he had seen? Preposterous! He recalled his lengthy training at the hands of a Tibetan master. "The past is nothing more than an elaborate composition that was played for you, and though you may still believe you can hear certain passages echoing tantalizingly, they will yet grow ever more muffled, losing cohesion within your ever evolving mind until only the simplest aspect of the refrain remains."

His hand found the banister and glided along its perfectly polished surface as he descended, stepping carefully and just so, using his knowledge of the structure to move without a sound. If he allowed the dream to fade naturally instead of trying to analyze it while it remained fresh, then only its simplest message would remain.

The world came to him in grey and silvertone flickers as though he had stepped into an old, grainy black and white film. For the moment, the wind had abated to lonely, frustrated howls, and was not making the house creak. There was abundant lightning, but very little and seemingly distant thunder. He thought he should check the leak upstairs soon and make certain that the means he had contrived of allowing the intruding water to drain into a bathtub was still intact.

But first a drink.

It seemed cold downstairs, more so than usual, and perhaps even a tad more humid, too. He should check the thermostat or maybe set a fire and curl up with a book until he felt drowsy again. He moved down a short hall and turned left, stepping into the kitchen. He was nearly at the refrigerator when a quick tattoo of lightning allowed him to envision a figure seated at the central island.

His breathing ceased. He could feel his heart beat. Staring hard into darkness broken by the silhouettes of appliances and fixtures, utensils and cookware, the only light a murky dimness emanating from the wet world outside, he listened and strained his senses.

_Click_. His left hand had flicked the main light switch upward. And now a stranger squinted at him in irritation from where she sat hunched over a half-eaten sandwich and the accessories she had used to create it. "Pardon me from interrupting your repast," he said gently, his mind analyzing every aspect of the unexpected scene, "but are we acquainted?"

One eyebrow lifted as she chewed slowly, watching him. He could see that her pupils were large and wondered if she was under the influence of some form of pharmaceutical. Otherwise, she appeared rather clean and healthy…aside from her own ghostly pallor. As he waited for her reply, she stared back at him, lifting a potato chip and destroying it thoughtfully between her molars.

He inhaled sharply. "Did you not hear me? I would like you to identify yourself."

She swallowed and inhaled, but remained slightly slumped, appearing unimpressed by him.

The man glanced downward, realized he was disheveled. "Have you business here, with me, or do I need to escort you from the premises?"

Both dark brows moved toward each other over her wrinkled nose and she managed to select another chip without breaking her stare, and tasted it and crunched it into oblivion like the last one.

Strangely, the fact that there was a stranger casually supping within his domain failed to alarm him as much as it might nearly anyone else. Her demeanor was far too complacent, as though she was watching an intriguing television program and not an extraordinarily intelligent and dangerous if need be Federal Agent open his refrigerator door and withdraw a sealed bottle of spring water. _She must know who I am_, he mused. _But why does she not address me?_

"What is your name?" he finally asked after a long, soothing drink from the bottle.

The girl shrugged and poked at her chips. "'manda."

"Amanda," he repeated, assuming his pronunciation was the more accurate. "Do you have some sort of business with me?" She listlessly moved a few of the larger chips around. "Have you come here to ask my assistance?" She shook her head, placing an index finger in her mouth to get the potato chip flavor from it. "Well, how did you get in?"

She looked up at him, squinting as though she hadn't heard him or perhaps considered him an idiot. Finally, she shrugged and lifted the sandwich to her lips.

"This house has never seen delicatessen cold cuts…nor potato chips…and what is that, some kind of soda?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "Why did you break in here with a bag of groceries and decide to dine in my kitchen, alone in the dark?"

"Not my idea," she grunted, chewing.

He listened, turning slowly. "Are you alone? Did you come here with anyone else?"

"You," she said, shrugging again, still chewing.

"Are you claiming there is no one else here? Only you and I?" He winced at her reaction. "Are you genuinely so dispassionate, or do you suffer muscle spasms of the trapezius?"

Her eyes opened a little wider as she stared at him and he saw they were exceptionally pale blue, something along the lines of faint color trapped within the depths of an iceberg. As he stared back he took in the blue sheen of her unnaturally black hair and the perfection of her powder-white complexion. He swallowed and tried, "Are you a friend of Corrie's?"

Completing her meal, the girl stood and brushed at her clothing to dislodge errant crumbs. He could see now that she was neither so tall nor as well developed as he'd imagined. He guessed her age to be somewhere between fourteen and sixteen. He asked, "Are you a runaway? Did you think the place abandoned and gain entry to safeguard yourself against the storm?" And saying this, it occurred to him that her long hair was glossy, well kept, and well combed. Her outfit, a simple red top and plain, but fitted denim jeans, with unmarked black suede boots protruding gave no indication that she had spent any recent time out of doors. As she approached, he inwardly tensed, prepared for anything untoward, yet appeared perfectly calm without. With astonishment he watched her skirt by and hit the lights on her way out of his kitchen.

"I say, Miss, if you do not tell me why you are here, then I am afraid I shall put you out."

She didn't hurry as she wandered the halls, and he found it peculiar that she didn't pause or look around to try and gauge her surroundings. It was as if she was intimately familiar with the place already. In fact, her feet made no sound whatsoever upon the wooden flooring as though she was all too aware of the precise places to set them to achieve complete secrecy.

"Are you…a friend of Constance?"

"Constant?" she asked, emerging into a room lit silvery blue from light seeping past heavy drapes. He watched her move about in near-darkness, examining things on shelves that were difficult at best to see.

"Constance? Constance Greene?"

"Don't know…Constant Green. Soylent Green…heard of that. It's people, right? 's Constant Green people?"

Clearly she was not in her right mind. "How do you know this place?"

She shrugged.

"Please stop shrugging and respond with words when I question you."

"'kay."

"Complete words," he added, "if possible."

"Sorry."

He had moved close behind her to observe her better. The pale coloration of his own eyes made them particularly light sensitive, and he assumed hers must be as well. Without touching her, he moved his hands close to her back, noting he could feel no heat emanating from her body. Perhaps she was chilled. Bending slightly, he realized that she seemed to lack any sort of odor. Despite her strange behavior, her bizarre communication methods, and the fact that she did not strike him as a threat of any kind made him wonder if she had been trained in the true ninja arts, and was therefore extraordinarily dangerous to him.

"What's this?" she asked, turning suddenly, but failing to react to his way too close proximity. She held something squarish and vaguely shiny in her hands. He had guessed its identity before he had accepted it from her, and said, "It is a type of porcelain music box shaped like a piano. The design is French Victorian, and it has gold gilt edges and genuine walrus ivory keys." He took hold of the protruding key to turn it for her, then wondered why he was considering entertaining this enigmatic stranger at all. "Amanda, how do you happen-" Glass shattered and rained past his left hand. The music box had been upon a shelf behind glass. He did not recall her unlocking the glass face, opening it, then lowering it again after taking the antique from the shelf. Now he had tried to replace the item via the most direct route and broken the case. In the darkness the girl was suddenly as close as he had been to her a moment before. She took his hand in hers and he was surprised at her icy touch. Her fingertips, soft as flour, slid all over his hand as though she had perfect vision and could see any cuts he might have suffered. Her examination was completed swiftly, and she had already blended with the shadows, moving across the room, nearly invisible with her back to him and her long hair concealing her body down to her waist. He reached to place the music box back and struck glass again. This time he snatched his hand back in surprise, and moved his head for a better look at the reflections upon the surface. Impossible! He reached to gently stroke the front of the glass case with his fingertips and found it intact. Moving his feet about, he detected no broken glass on the floor. Lightning flashed and he distinctly saw the little trinket still upon its shelf. He tried to lift the cabinet front and found it locked.

Turning suddenly, he realized he had lost track of the stranger, and moved for the nearest light switch. She was nowhere to be seen. He left the room and moved silently, but with all haste, to peer quickly within every room she might have conceivably wandered into, but failed to locate her. "Amanda?" he called a bit urgently, concerned that now that she had managed to elude him, perhaps her true intentions were being acted out. "Amanda? Can you hear me?" He hurried about, making his way toward the nearest place where he might obtain a particular weapon. "Amanda? Please respond to me! I'd like to speak with you." He deftly retrieved one of many hidden handguns he kept loaded just in case and continued moving, making his way back toward the kitchen since it was the last place he had seen her. If, by chance, her visit was innocent in nature, then odds were she had only left to locate a bathroom or had returned to collect her groceries so that she might leave or at least refrigerate the unused portions.

The bathrooms he passed were unoccupied. The kitchen was clean. There was no trace of her supper. No crumbs on the floor or counter. No waste in the rubbish bin. No new items had found their way into the refrigerator. He turned the light out and backtracked. She could see fairly well without light, so any room was a possible destination. Was she a thief? Some kind of assassin? A spy? An extraordinarily quiet and strange transient? He felt ridiculous for letting her vanish.

Dodging into a closet beneath the stairs, he opened a hidden panel that revealed a set of surveillance equipment and rapidly scanned the views on every camera. Nothing. He checked a display that let him know what doors had been recently utilized and saw that only the ones he himself had opened had moved at all. Scanning back through time, he saw that absolutely no doors leading to the outside had been touched since he had closed and locked up behind his staff and ward. No windows at all showed any signs of tampering. Which meant his visitor had either discovered some new means of gaining entry to his abode, had managed to alter the data in his security system, had somehow bypassed the system, or had entered earlier and perhaps been hiding inside the mansion all along.

After all, it had taken him some time to discover that Constance had been abiding there for decades.

On impulse, he clicked on a small light so he could examine his left hand. It was utterly untouched. No marks whatsoever. He had imagined it, then? Had she managed to hypnotize him somehow? Or…could it be he had a ghost?

He felt his forehead. Clammy. _Am I ill? Perhaps still dreaming…?_ That seemed likely. Yet…even his most lucid dreams had never felt so real, the detail so precise. "If I am dreaming," he whispered to himself, holding the handgun aloft. No. How morbid. A bullet through the braincase was not a good way to prove if he was dreaming or not. He sighed.

_Wake myself up, or shall I allow this mystery to play out_, he wondered, exiting the closet and closing the door tight. He heard a slight creak and glanced upward, catching sight of a door swinging without provocation. "Drink me," he sighed, and maneuvered up the steps toward the still ajar door. It creaked again as he pushed it gently with the hand that held the gun. He didn't know if he should shoot Amanda or not. While almost positive he was still in bed asleep, it wouldn't be worth the risk or paperwork to shoot her, particularly if this was all real and she was merely a teenaged girl who had managed to run amok of him while his nerves were slightly frayed.

The room was small and sparsely furnished with a crude iron bed and a hobbyhorse to one side. "This is a dream," he decided, relaxing some, aware no such room was decorated thusly inside his voluminous home. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" he called, enjoying the thrill of the hunt. A closet door swung slightly on its hinges as lightning flashed. He stepped toward it, tensed for the thunder he knew was forthcoming, counting the seconds so he could determine its distance from the house. He grinned in a most creepy manner, titillated by the absurd horror-movie setting, marveling at the solid feel and heft of the gun. He used the barrel to nudge the door open and the thunder cracked softly at first, seemingly racing toward his location like the sharp reports of ice breaking beneath his feet on a frozen river, culminating in the very distinct and accurate roar of a male African lion so real that his body hair stood on end. "How _marvelous!_" he exhaled, tensed for anything. Behind a few strange garments dangling from wire hangers, past a painted bamboo bumbershoot, beyond a tall, wooden vase gilded gold and featuring Asian artwork, he saw torn wallpaper exposing a sizeable hole.

"The white rabbit went this way," he muttered, pushing items aside so he could crawl behind the wall.

He knew that the mansion, or any home-like setting within a dream, signified himself, and that moving deeper into it behind the walls or under floors, discovering hidden rooms and staircases, was his way of exploring his own inner psyche. "This should be interesting," he told himself, discovering a broad, dark staircase leading upward to his right. In reality, he should have encountered a brick wall. Upward was a good sign. It meant progress. He started up the warped, badly creaking steps, carpeted by some poorly tacked-on threadbare fabric. It was darker above him, and finally he could make out the underside of an angle of the roof. A door faced him from the right, but there was no knob when he grabbed for it, and in fact there was no door either. It was a square of lightless ebony. Beyond it felt cold and empty…not like a basement or an abandoned tool shed, but as though this doorway opened directly into the void of space. A part of him withered, sensing that he was moving out of lucidity and into a nightmare. He could wake from the nightmare, not control it. Disappointed, he spun and fired several shots into the lowest part of the ceiling. Light seeped through the holes he'd created, and he placed his fingers in them, gripping shattered, rotted wood and yanking it toward himself, exposing another room. He struggled with the dry, dusty, easily splintered wood until he could climb past it into a long, attic room furnished with a plain red rug, a yellow beanbag chair, a television, and a flimsy TV tray table with a sweating plastic tumbler of cold liquid upon it. This room felt uncomfortably warm and smelled of freshly sawn pine. It was nothing like any place he was familiar with, and he didn't care for it. At the far end he saw a small round window and moved toward it. He could not tell where the bright lighting in the room came from. His footsteps creaked and echoed, until he realized he was actually hearing someone else's footsteps in an adjoining space. "Hello?" he called, feeling foolish, for he knew that every creature, every being we encounter in our dreams is in actuality just an aspect of ourselves. "My anima is pretty," he decided, thinking of the teenaged girl. "Amanda? Is that you?" he called louder, but the other footsteps continued without pause so that he doubted that whomever was making them had heard him at all.

Dead bugs lay amidst dust on the windowsill, and now he could see that it was not truly round, but more of a hexagon in outline with a plus-shaped pane dividing the glass. Outside he glimpsed the edges of the house and distant silhouettes of taller structures. "I have dreamed myself into the Winchester mansion," he quipped, shaking his head in wonder.

Turning, he noted that the long room was now no larger than one of his smaller bathrooms, the long red rug rumpled, the chair touching his right calf, the TV on the floor to his left, the TV tray no longer present. "Tacky things," he muttered, reaching for the knob of the door almost directly behind himself. It opened into a beautifully appointed game room featuring built-in shelving full of cloth-bound books, an opulent billiard table of tiger maple topped with crimson felt and thick gold tassels at every pocket, Baroque chairs with oiled seats of elk leather, a brass chandelier, matching wall sconces, and red striped fabric wallpaper broken with sprays of painted flora and tiny, gold-haired cherubs. "Better," he said, striding confidently within.

At the far right corner was a small, white door set within a gilded doorframe. Servants' entrance, he mused, beelining for it. It allowed him access to a narrow hallway, then a flight of densely carpeted stairs. He thought to descend this time, all too aware that he had entertained this exact sort of tiring dream before, spending what seemed like entire nights moving from room to room in an endless labyrinth of them, glimpsing the outside but never achieving it until he finally awakened. "Not tonight," he assured himself, picking up speed, racing through doorways and up and down staircases, punching through walls to access crawlspaces. It finally occurred to him that his heart must be racing, reacting to things only his mind was actively involved in, and he should calm himself if he expected to awaken feeling rested. Pausing within a grand living room before a massive fireplace set within a wall of stone, the head of a huge black grizzly mounted above it, he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and began to will himself into a state of drowsy bliss. Before long, aware only of the sound of his own breathing, he staggered backward and fell into an overstuffed leather chair polished with something that held hints of sandalwood, lime, bamboo, and oak moss. The room spun beyond his slitted eyes. He allowed his head to loll, sensing the spinning sensation deep within his own mind, knowing that it would enhance the lucid nature of the dream, focusing his thoughts and granting him complete control.

Darkness descended upon him like a blanket. It soaked into his psyche, and he sank within dark, murky, comforting quiet. For some time he was motionless, asleep within a dream. His heartbeat slowed, his respiration quieted, his body temperature lowered until the noticeable coolness of the dream aroused him.

Before him stood a wall. Beyond it, vaguely shifting, living blue. He felt utterly at peace, saturated with calm. The floor beneath his feet was marble tile or some material very like it. Heavy, dark wood lined the thick panes of glass he stared at. Distantly he heard a soft cry that echoed. A strange tingling sensation began in his wrists and traveled along his arms, down his body to his legs, warming him as it filled him. He felt almost groggy. He was in such a deep state of passiveness that anything could have happened to him and he would have allowed it as if he was nothing more than a jellyfish at the mercy of sunlight and a shallow tide pool. Dark shadows undulated across his vision, moving slowly and deliberately. Eventually, listening to the sporadic bits of groans and whines of soft whale song, he became aware that he was not alone.

A slight smile lifted the corners of his lips. He wondered what the girl would bring.

But she only stood very near the glass, her hands clasped behind her back, staring. Her long hair touched her wrists. She remained perfectly still. "You must be my anima…to utilize self control like that." Had he spoken aloud? He didn't think his jaw had actually moved and could not recall taking a breath in order to begin speaking.

Slight movement caught his attention and he witnessed a thin stream of saltwater sliding down from the ceiling, slithering in and out of the joining of two pieces of darkly stained molding. The girl remained motionless. Water began to pool beneath her feet. He sat up and slowly gazed around, noting they were surrounded by the vast tank of seawater. To the left was a large panel that looked like a door.

The trickle became a fine spray. He swallowed, attempting to will himself still and calm. He became entangled in the horrific notion that should he approach her, take her shoulder and turn her gently towards himself for a word or two, that he would find she had passed away long ago and her flesh would be nothing but a few slimy, discolored ropes dangling from some of the protuberances of her otherwise bare skull.

She began to turn, and he drew his legs up, tensing.

The quarter profile appeared normal, and he suspected she was smiling if not smirking at him.

"We have a leak," he mentioned, relaxing his form.

"It's in the bathroom," she replied. "You haven't fixed it yet."

He emitted a small chuckle as he glanced about the strange room again. "If these walls should fail…."

A trio of humpback whales glided very near the glass, a very large adult, a juvenile and a calf.

"My heavens," he said, impressed.

The girl turned and appeared pensive as she looked down at the puddle she stood in. "You might want to fix this."

"Of course," he said, gaining his feet and approaching her. He sought the source of the leak, but had nothing to halt it with. "I suppose I could tear stuffing out of the chair…or chew a bit of leather and cram it in there…."

"Or call a plumber."

He looked down at her and was struck by her fair beauty. Her skin glowed faintly in the blue-hued light, flawlessly youthful, bringing to mind his initial enchantment with Helen. "Hello, Amanda," he whispered, wishing to use the name of his long-lost beloved as though it could transform her like a spell into the woman he most desired.

"Aloysius," she said, making a face as though she had just taken note of a stray bit of hair or lint caught on her tongue. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Terrible name," she told him, turning for another look through the thick window.

He laughed. "Is any name more awful than another? It is an antiquated moniker, to be sure, but one that I have always felt helps to better define me; the imagery it conjures in the minds of your average-"

She inhaled sharply and blinked. "Okay! Okay! I guess it's better than Diogenes."

He knew for certain that she was who he thought she was; the female incarnation of himself, his anima. How else could she know him so well? "Yes, well, do you have any idea what the neighborhood children used to call him? Ah, of course you do…you are just another aspect of myself."

She glanced into his eyes like he was crazy, then shook her head.

"You don't believe me? I have had this dream before…aware that I am dreaming, in control of every aspect of my subconscious, and the characters I have peopled my nighttime adventures with doubting me, sometimes aggressively so…insisting I am anything but sane until I do this-" He thrust a hand at her chest and managed to knock her a few steps backward.

Amanda crossed her hands over her chest and glared at him.

"Hold still," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder and using the free one to push at her flesh, the fingers clenched together in the sword-style of a martial artist, squinting as he concentrated on pushing his flesh through hers, solid through solid, as he had demonstrated before for the unbelievers of his dreams. Eventually, she caught his hand and deflected it away, then glared at him with growing irritation, ducking from beneath his grip on her shoulder. "Watch this," he said, turning and touching his toes to the base of the glass wall, standing straight and stiff, his nose cold against the unyielding surface he faced. He closed his eyes and willed the sensation upon himself, the strange, scrapey pressure of his nose pushing through glass crystals, the coldness of the glass as it outlined his slowly progressing form, holding his breath as he tended to do whenever he performed this particular trick. A loud, muffled groan made him blink and he found himself standing in the puddle with his nose mashed up against the glass, the oil from his skin marring the surface as the side of an entire adult whale slid by on the other side.

Aloysius placed his palms against the cool surface, finding it very solid…aside from the sheen of wetness beginning to glide down his side of it.

"Like sherry," Amanda mentioned, watching the liquid meet and cascade over his fingers.

"I don't understand," he said.

"You are not where you think you are."

"I am dreaming."

"Yes."

"I am in bed, in my mansion, asleep while it storms outside. My troubled mind playing tricks on me."

"You live in a mansion?"

He turned toward her, watching water droplets fall from his hands. "I possess several different abodes."

"You possess a boat?"

He blinked at her, then looked around. "Do you think we need one?"

"Maybe a submarine."

He shook his head and paced. "This is not a nightmare, not a nightmare. I _refuse_ to succumb to one! I can handle this!" Rising on one toe, he spun like a dancer, rotating several turns before he felt a bit dizzy and breathless.

She applauded politely. "I'm getting bored."

He nodded, vaguely embarrassed as he straightened his tie and smoothed down his jacket. "Is that a doorway?" he asked, pointing past her.

She turned her head. "Elevator. It's broken."

"Are you certain?" He moved toward it, his expensive handmade shoes tapping through the shallow puddle with little splashes. There was no panel of buttons to summon a car with, and nothing to grip that might allow them to slide the wood back and reveal the lift behind it. He spread his fingers wide and tried to use the pressure of his hands to force the concealing panel open. His fingers felt along the joining edges of the wood frame, seeking a means to separate it and force his way through. The gentle tug of water increased as the leather of his shoes became saturated and his socks began to wick saltwater to his feet, chilling them. "Amanda," he said, "if this is not where I think I am…then where, exactly are we?"

She was levitating just above the surface of the roiling waters so that they nearly matched in height. With a slight, almost sad smile, she reached for his hand and clutched it to her chest, staring into his pale, troubled eyes. "Hold your breath."

"What?"

Frigid, swirling water and bubbles abruptly surrounded them. He tried to keep his eyes open, but without any means of orientation, he felt only confusion. Aloysius tried to relax, knowing his body should right itself either shoulders upward or downward, after which he could see if the water appeared brighter before him or darker, thus giving him some sense of direction. The violent onrush of water tossed him like a limp toy in the mouth of a terrier, so that even the bubbles that escaped his lips gave no clue which way up might be. The entire time he struggled, his left hand remained firmly caught by the stranger, so that he wondered if he had tossed and turned in his sleep and perhaps enwound his hand in a bit of sheet.

"_Axel,"_ he heard, and his eyebrows moved toward the bridge of his nose. "Axel, wake up."

He blinked, seeing tall spires of grasses near his face, feeling a slight breeze buffet his skin. He lay on his side atop uneven, weedy ground. Sand clung to his damp attire and pale skin. He spit and sputtered sand and who knew what else from his lips as he pushed himself into a sitting position and gazed at the nearest buildings. Coughing, he wiped at his mouth with a sandy sleeve, and made a face. "I feel dreadful. Where have you taken me?" He actually knew exactly where he was, but they were the first words that came to mind in his state of agitation. "We need to get back to the mansion…or my apartment. I require clean clothes and a hot shower."

Amanda stood near him, watching him, the wind drawing stray hairs away from her shoulders and setting them dancing about her face. The sun was behind her, and he lifted a hand to partially block its rays as he looked at her. "Why did you call me _Axel_?"

"Ae Ecks Ehl," she explained, offering him a hand to help him rise. "Ae Ecks Ehl Pendergast."

He stood unsteadily and brushed at his soiled clothing with his palms. "You know my name is Aloysius." Plenty of sand flew before his efforts, and plenty seemed to embed itself deeper in the dark fabric of his jacket and slacks. "And Axel is spelled with an E in it. It is not my name. I don't care for it at all."

The teen shrugged and turned away from him.

"I believe these shoes are ruined."

"Ahoy!" someone called. "Do you require assistance?"

Pendergast looked up at a small boat with a shallow draft and New York City Police markings screened on it. _Ahoy?_ Had they actually said ahoy? He squinted in the bright light and turned a circle, noting the island they stood on was as small as he remembered and litter strewn more so than usual—probably as a result of the storm. Within his heavy, moist jacket he discovered his stiff, waterlogged wallet and withdrew it to display his identification. "FBI," he announced. "Yes, we require assistance! Can you take us back to the mainland?"

The little boat approached slowly, the pair aboard it grinning and talking to each other. When it was close enough, the female officer disembarked and made her way toward them, halting a cautious distance away. "May I examine your ID?"

He tossed the wallet and she caught it. "How do you happen to be stranded here, Agent Pendergast?"

"A story for another time," he sighed, dropping his gaze to the teen.

"Something work-related?"

"Of course."

"And who is this?" The policewoman, more comfortable with them now, started toward Amanda, but her partner called to her, asking for her help in anchoring the little patrol boat. She turned away and caught a rope he'd cast, then sought the sturdiest looking wood-stemmed plant to hold it temporarily.

"This feels too real," Aloysius mentioned softly. Amanda turned his way, squinting. Her hair looked dry, her attire perfect, shoes without a speck of sand clinging to them, and he looked…a mess.

"I'm sorry, here you go," the policewoman said, approaching him with his wallet in her outstretched hand. "Do you need us to radio your department or your supervisor for you?"

"That won't be necessary," he replied, tucking the wallet back into his pocket.

"Is she…your.…"

He said, "assistant."

"Your assistant?"

"She is assisting me…with my case, yes."

The cop's eyebrows rose, but she smiled at the teenager amiably. "Are you okay, Miss?"

Amanda nodded.

The male police officer jogged up with a pair of towels for them. "We can give you a lift, but we'll have to radio it in that we're transporting someone."

"As you must," Pendergast said, wadding the towel into a sort of thick swab and using it to bat sand from his clothing.

"Have you been here long?"

"Not really," he told the female officer.

"Were you…in an accident?" The male officer queried.

"Not quite. Thank you," he handed back the towel and the male cop shook it out. Amanda handed hers back also, and no one noticed that she had done nothing other than hold it. The two officers wandered back toward their small watercraft. "This no longer feels like a dream."

"Not dreaming," the girl said, gazing into the wind, her long hair streaming behind her.

"But this _has_ to be a dream," he insisted, nearing her enough to lightly catch her elbow and guide them slowly toward the police vessel. "It simply must. How else could I possibly have gone from my bed to…to Rat Island?"

Amanda shrugged.

"Please don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shrugging. Please, please answer my queries directly."

They were close enough now to the boat that they mutually decided to stop speaking to each other. Pendergast held her hand, helping to guide her as she stepped from a low sand ledge across shallow, lapping water and the male cop hauled her safely on board. The female handed her a life vest and showed her how to don it. Pendergast leaped lightly to the edge of the boat, wavering there for just a moment, then dropped safely onto the small deck. He ran his hands across his wayward hair, discovering to his distaste that it was as damp and full of sand as his outfit. Out of curiosity, he stared back toward the small island as they departed, imagining there must be a boat, a raft, some means of conveyance that had brought them there aside from…_astral_ travel? The boat bounced across the slight chop, and a few seagulls swooped over their wake, seeking disturbed fish.

While the male police officer piloted the little craft, the female sat hunched over a notepad she jotted details of their encounter within. Amanda stood as far forward as she could, her voluminous black hair whipping behind her. She was still and unaffected by the movement of the vessel. Pendergast continued to stare at her thoughtfully from behind, wondering how this new scenario was going to play out.

As they were disembarking upon a floating dock, the female asked, "What was her name again?"

"Her name is Amanda," the agent told her, following the girl closely as she headed for land.

"Her last name?"

Ignoring the woman, he hurried after Amanda, hopping up onto a higher stationary dock and following its winding path up onto pavement. He took hold of her arm again. "What is your last name?"

"Last name? 'manda…always my name."

"What is your full name?"

"'manda."

He asked, "It is A-manda, is it not?"

"'swhat I said."

"You tend to soften and slur your words," he told her, holding onto her tightly enough to slow her progress. "It is unfortunate because you possess a soft speaking voice. I find myself having to replay your words in my mind to ensure I heard you correctly."

"Hm," she said, pulling him along like a dog on a leash.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," she answered.

That intrigued him. "Do you reside in this area?"

She started to shrug, then looked angry with herself. "I live at home," she insisted petulantly.

"And…which way might that be?"

She halted and studied the skyline, finally pointing in the general direction of Central Park.

"I don't believe I have ever seen you before," he told her, traveling forward again.

She turned to study his features in daylight. "Look half dead."

This caused his pale brows to rise and a quirky smile to grace his lips. "Let us catch a cab. These wet shoes are deplorable."

He had noticed that touching her cool, smooth, unblemished skin seemed to lend his fingertips a faint tingling sensation. In the back of the taxi he tried not to appear too creepy as he held her left hand and gazed down at her arm, noting a lack of fine hairs. He turned it gently, noticing there were no visible veins just beneath the surface of her skin. Then he took her wrist between forefinger and thumb just so, seeking a pulse. "Are you from this area?"

"Guess so," she answered uncertainly, gazing at the passing sites around them.

"What are your parents' names?"

Her features wrinkled, and she finally looked him in the eye, admitting somberly, "I…don't know."

He reached gently to brush her long hair away from her neck, then stroked it as though he was fond of her, while checking for healing head wounds. "Where do you go to school?"

"I'm sorry, Bud," the cabbie grunted, yanking the wheel and drawing the Ford up beside a line of parked cars, "but you gotta get out. _Now_."

Pendergast was perplexed for just a moment until he realized how the backseat activity must seem to someone who hadn't been following the storyline thus far. "Of course," he answered quickly, taking Amanda's hand and pulling her after him.

"Not her," the driver said. He was about fifty, heavyset and muscular, hirsute and tattooed. "Are you okay, honey? Do you need me to take you somewhere? Like a friend's house maybe? Or maybe to the police?"

She eyed him strangely and exited the backseat. Pendergast gratefully pulled her after himself onto the sidewalk and kept moving, aware the cabbie had his address. No matter; should anyone in a position of authority question him, he knew nothing untoward would be discovered.

Aside from the strange teenager herself.

"Are you hungry?" he asked her as they walked past bagel shops and delis, gift shops and narrow stores selling cheap versions of designer objets d'desire.

She shrugged, then turned and apologized to him. "No. I'm okay."

"I could use a little something myself, but I can wait until we make it back home."

He was able to hail another cab and refrained from attempting further examinations upon the girl until they reached the mansion. He deactivated the security system and led her within. Despising his ruined shoes, he bent to remove them, glancing up to see she had vanished again. "Amanda?"

"Hm?"

He sighed. "Can I entertain you with a good book perhaps while I refresh myself? I…I want you to be here when I return."

She turned to face him from the base of the staircase. "Not sure…where I am."

"You…don't recognize this place?"

"Your house," she said, one eyebrow arched.

"Yes. This is my house. Can I be assured you will still be here after I have cleaned myself up?"

She looked downcast and said quietly, "…not sure where to go…."

"Excellent. Please make yourself at home, but don't wander far. I shan't be long." He strode toward the staircase carrying his shoes, but paused alongside her. "If…if you would please indulge me a moment," he asked, setting his shoes and sodden socks atop his own feet to avoid wetting the floor. He faced her, and she looked up at him. For a long moment he simply stared into her eyes, rather uncannily similar to his own, but distinctly more blue. Shooting his cuffs, he reached to either side of her head, then brought his hands up to her throat. His fingers slowly ran along the line of her carotid artery while his thumb sought the indentation at the base of her throat where her pulse should be easily felt. "Do physicians have difficulty determining your pulse rate?" His eyes widened when he felt her hands alight upon his hips. "Could you…not do that?" He shifted his position and one shoe rolled sideways, landing leather-first upon the floor. Pendergast lifted her arm and felt in the crook of her elbow. He lingered only a moment before sliding his hand up to her armpit, which, bizarrely, felt cool to the touch. Puzzled, he placed a hand behind her neck beneath her skull, then slipped his fingers just beneath the neck of her shirt. No warmth. No discernable pulse. The other shoe fell and he no longer cared. Moving closer, he tilted her head back and drew her lower eyelids down, peering at the whites of her eyes. They both were solid white if not ever so slightly blue…with absolutely no sign of fine blood vessels. He reached within a pocket for a tiny LED flashlight and shone it into her dark pupils, one then the other, peering down into her eyes…and seeing nothing at all. The pupils remained unfathomably black, reminding him for a second of the strange room he had encountered at the top of the hidden staircase in his dream. Her pupils failed to react to the bright light shining in them, either. "Forgive me," he murmured, and gave her face a sharp, quick slap. She reached up toward a cheek that bloomed with a classic oil-painting rosiness, but he held her wrist to prevent her from touching her skin. Puzzled, and feeling a tad guilty for startling her, he allowed his thumb to caress the faintly warm mark and felt relieved to know she must, indeed, be human. Still touching her face, he asked, softly, "You will await me?"

"Await you?"

"You will not leave the house? I promise I shall not take long."

The girl turned away and stood with her back to him, looking about as though the place was now unfamiliar. "Okay," he heard her say softly, and watched her stroll uncertainly toward the kitchen.

Pendergast raced up the stairs, loosening damp clothing as he went. He deposited his entire wardrobe in a laundry chute and raked his closet, seeking something casual while he ran the shower. He bathed quickly, but efficiently, dressed hurriedly, pausing only for a pensive look at his rumpled bed. Was he asleep in it or not? He didn't feel like he was dreaming, but he had been fooled before. He descended in creased slacks and a plain white shirt, buttoned to the throat with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, his hair almost dry and combed perfectly into place. "Amanda?"

He took quick peeks into various rooms as he headed in the direction he had last seen her take. Finally he discovered her within the old conservatory. "Ah."

She looked at him, then away, still unimpressed. "Big house."

"It is a bit much. My needs are surprisingly few, but I do so appreciate high quality tinged with a touch of…the odd shall we say?"

"FBI," she murmured, caressing a harpsichord that had been silent for decades.

"Yes. Did you not know that? You know my name…my full name…."

"Axel."

He winced slightly, but smiled at her. "Amanda…did you come to me because you require my help as a federal agent?"

Now she smiled. "_I _did not need help."

He considered the inflection of her words. "Do you insinuate…that _I_ require _your _assistance? In some manner?"

She shrugged and winced. "Sorry."

He trailed her around the antique instrument. "Have you…ever been to…the South American rainforests?"

"Dunno."

His eyes narrowed. "Do you recall…ever being examined within a laboratory?"

She halted, her eyes wide. "Yes…."

His heart beat faster. "Are you familiar with the genetic experiments conducted by Nazi scientists back in the nineteen thirties and forties?"

"No," she said, looking a little perturbed. "No."

"Have you…ever seen anyone wearing a Nazi type uniform…or even a swastika?"

"No," she sighed, wandering toward a music stand.

"You do have memories of a laboratory, though…can you recall why you were being examined?"

"Tests," she answered distractedly, letting her gaze follow ornamental molding around the room.

"Did anyone ever say anything to you about DNA, or genes, stem cells.…?"

"Jeans," she said, plucking at the spotless pair she wore.

It seemed far-fetched, but he asked her, "Have you ever had an IQ test?"

When she turned toward him, she cocked her head. "I what test?"

"Have you ever heard of such a test?"

She almost shrugged, but groaned instead. "No…I don't know…maybe."

"Would you mind…if I administered such a test on you?"

At first she looked apprehensive, but her mood lightened quickly and she nodded. "Okay."

Pendergast wondered if she was agreeable to the experiment because it was something familiar to her. The notion of a laboratory had not seemed unsettling to her. "Come with me," he said, extending a hand for her to take. Her grip was cool and caused his skin to tingle. He hoped to learn the cause of the sensation.

The old mansion had multiple subterranean chambers, some connected to one another and others not. The girl seemed vaguely intrigued as he led her down into darker, cooler places, avoiding some doorways and accessing others until he activated the lights and illuminated a small, but serviceable multi-purpose laboratory. He released her hand and she stepped forward to look around, lacking any signs of fear or suspicion.

"Does this remind you of any place you've been before?"

"Sort of. Maybe. Kinda small."

"My requirements are few," he reminded her gently. He closed the door and locked it, then cleaned his hands and began perusing the contents of drawers and cabinets. "Would you mind," he began, smiling when he saw her already seated upon the examination table, "if I fingerprint you?"

The girl made a funny face like she thought it might tickle, but consented.

The agent had a small, simple kit of the sort used to gather fingerprints from children as a fun activity at public safety events. He donned Nitrile gloves and approached her, keeping his features as neutral as possible. "Do the people you see in the laboratory…do they wear gloves and masks?"

"No."

He peeled back the film on a square of ink and set the cardstock he'd make the prints on beside her. "You might want to stand beside me so I can roll your fingers and get good prints."

She slid down, and while her movements were casual, he noted she made no sound whatsoever.

"Give me your left hand." She offered it and he told her to relax, pretend her hands were boneless. Pendergast isolated her thumb and carefully pressed it onto the square of black ink. Then he lifted it, positioned it over the appropriate square on the cardstock and applied it expertly, slowly rolling the digit while maintaining pressure. The print came out as a plain smudge. He acquired an alcohol wipe and cleaned the thumb carefully, then made a second attempt with the same result. Lifting her freshly cleaned thumb, he squinted at it, manipulating it in the harsh lighting. Keeping hold of her hand, he reached for a large lighted magnifier on a tall, flexible gooseneck stand, turned it on, and began to study her fingers.

Not only did Amanda lack any indication of fingerprints, but as he drew her hand and arm beneath the lens, he saw her skin lacked any type of texture at all. With a sharp sigh, he looked at her face and she looked back, awaiting judgment. "You are a conundrum."

"I'm a what?"

"You appear to be a physical impossibility, young lady. Are you young? You look like you are in your early teens, but based on what I'm seeing here…I could not honestly guess your age at all. Perhaps…like Constance…."

"Constant…Green?"

"I have never had a dream that went on this way…I have never in my life experienced so realistic a dream…."

"Not a dream," she told him, shaking her head slowly.

"But, my dear, this absolutely must be a dream because otherwise you simply could not exist. Even were this in fact reality, wakeful reality, then how could you know the things I said to you in a dream?"

"_You_ are not dreaming," she told him.

Again he ran her wording through his head before allowing himself a faint smile. "You are suggesting that _I_ am but a figment of _your_ imagination? That this is _your_ dream?"

Unhappily she sighed and let her gaze drop to the worthless fingerprint cards.

Pendergast swept her hands up in his and told her, "I think you are the most fascinating character I have ever had the pleasure of meeting within my dreams or without, Amanda. While we are still able to interact, may I continue to study you?"

"'kay."

He beamed and patted the tabletop. "Please be seated." He retrieved a stethoscope and inserted the buds into his ears. "Please be still." He applied the sensitive disc to her chest where he had attempted to push his hand through her earlier. Silence. "Take a breath, please." He felt her body move, saw it, but heard nothing. Examining the disc, he tapped it lightly and winced at the loud sounds he produced. Then he slipped it between the buttons of his shirt and listened to his own heartbeat and breathing. "Lie back, please."

"Say please a lot."

"Good manners bespeak an excellent upbringing and intelligent nature." He hesitated over her form. "May I…I would like to place this against your bare skin."

She only gazed up at him without concern.

The man gently lifted the edge of the square cut neckline just enough to ease the end of his stethoscope over her heart. From the outside of her shirt, he pressed gently against her form, attempting to pick up any normal sound whatsoever. Nothing. Moving away from her and removing the listening device, he said, "I'd like to draw some blood."

"Okay."

"You are extraordinarily agreeable."

"Okay."

"Allow me to take your temperature," he said, returning to her side with an object he placed just inside her ear canal. He activated it and waited. No temperature. This did not surprise him. "I believe I have an old mercury thermometer somewhere." After sterilizing it, he asked her to part her lips, and distracted himself by taking hold of her lower lip and peeling it downward. No visible blood vessels. He was about to insert the thermometer when he was struck by an interesting thought and bent slowly, watching her reaction, until he was close enough to sniff her breath. Clearly she was breathing. He could see it, he could feel it soft against the skin of his freshly shorn face. But there was no odor. Nothing. Hesitant, he steeled himself to dip farther and practically inserted his nose into her open mouth for a good whiff…of nothing.

"Uck," she said, looking at him while he kept hold of her lower lip.

"You…are incomplete," he marveled softly, releasing her. "You seem…nearly perfect…like someone's human ideal…aside from your communication skills."

She cocked her head again.

"Thus I must assume that whatever aspect of myself you represent is also incomplete…." Mind whirring, he turned away.

"Blood?"

"Yes, thank you." He used a length of soft rubber tubing to tie off her upper arm, then asked her to make a fist while he prepared a syringe. "It's almost as if…you have no heart…." he whispered to himself. When he returned to her, he palpated the inner crook of her elbow and failed to locate a vein. He repeated the procedure on her other arm with the same results. "Let's remove your shoes," he said, taking hold of surprisingly pliant, soft suede-like material and pulling gently. The short boot slid off easily, exposing a naked, pale, perfect foot. He'd already seen that her nails were as flawless as a doll's with nothing caught beneath them. Her toenails, of course were exactly the same, only squared off and shorter. Pendergast, feeling free to do as he pleased so long as at least one of them was just dreaming all of this, planted his muzzle within the boot's opening and inhaled deeply.

Amanda watched him carefully.

"You are odorless," he announced. "You would make an excellent hunter."

He chucked the boot haphazardly over his shoulder and bent over the foot, noting no calluses, no hangnails, nothing peculiar at all save for the fact she was too perfect. "Nexus 6?" he asked, peeking at her from the end of the table.

"Huh?"

He felt around her foot and ankle, then boldly rolled the hem of her pant leg up enough to satisfy himself that she sported no stubble, not even the dots of roots waiting to sprout from her flesh. The skin of her leg was as smooth as banana skin. Staring up at her, he entertained a final thought that gave him pause. If nowhere else, he should be able to get a pulse from her inner thigh. Nothing he had done so far had bothered her in the least. He strongly suspected he could possibly autopsy her and she wouldn't complain. The dream, if that's what this was, felt way too real. He swallowed contemplatively. There was no need to examine her that completely. He was only killing time, satisfying curiosity, seeking the extent of his imagination and trying to decipher the psychological implications as he went.

Then again he was human and everything that the status implied.

But perhaps she was not. And if this was _not_ a dream… "…then you are the single most important gift of science to mankind."

"'kay," she said, finishing with a tiny smile.

He chuckled, amazed by her. "Is anyone looking for you? May I keep you?"

Her brow furrowed.

"Until I awaken…or you do. Whichever comes first."

When he finally pierced her sterilized skin with the needle, she showed no sign she was even aware of what was happening. Aloysius closed his eyes to slits and concentrated on her inner workings through feel, seeking the blood vessel he knew should be there. It occurred to him he might simply draw up a sample of whatever he possibly could, but whatever halted him from indulging in amoral behavior kept him from abusing her flesh. He eventually withdrew the steel and pressed a cotton ball to the exit point. "Hold this," he told her, pushing her index finger against the absorbent stuff while he sought an adhesive bandage. Before applying it, he lifted the cotton for a quick peek and saw nothing. No blood. No tiny red dot on her skin. Stealing a quick glance into her eyes, he gently seized the skin and pinched it upward, attempting to squeeze forth a drop…but there was no mark on her whatsoever beneath the magnifying light, so he tossed the cotton and bandage in the waste bin.

"You feel pain, don't you?"

"No."

His eyes sparkled. "If I struck you…you would not feel it?"

"Not really."

He pulled a stool up beside her and sat on it. "There is a genetic anomaly, a disease, in which the sufferer cannot feel any pain, not even heat nor cold."

Amanda merely blinked.

He pinched her arm while gazing into her eyes and she reacted not at all. "Well, now I know _something_ about you." Wheeling the stool across the small room, he caught himself at the counter and activated a computer. "There can't be many teenaged girls in this area named Amanda who possess this particular genetic marker."


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

They did not enter through either the arched double front doors, or through the servants' door on the side. Leaving the car beneath the porte cochere, the pair moved around the house, peering in any windows they could get close enough to and discovering, as suspected, that they were all too well concealed with heavy draperies to allow illicit peeping. The female held herself and shivered despite the balmy breezes and her long sleeves. The man, large, powerfully built, with a bald head, queried, "Are you ready to enter?"

She nodded, looking grim, feeling vaguely foolish. She had insisted that the man drive her back to the city based solely upon a hunch…although it was her intuition that had allowed her to exist for so long undetected, surviving not much better than a rodent deep within the bowels of the Beaux-Arts mansion. While she sometimes felt peculiar about distant events or people she did not actually know, the sensations she entertained regarding the very few people she truly trusted and cared about were the strongest, always requiring an immediate response. "I hope I am overreacting."

The man assisted her through well-tended landscape features toward the kitchen where the window treatments allowed a fragmentary view of the inside. "The security system has been deactivated," he noted.

"Entirely?"

"It would appear so…and has been for a couple of hours."

The woman inhaled deeply and waited for the man to open the door for her. He gestured for her to trail him, and crossed the threshold, listening, sniffing, and attempting to observe anything out of the ordinary. "Perhaps you'd like to make some tea," he suggested, unwilling to put her in the way of potential harm.

"Perhaps I'd not," she responded primly, following him closely.

No lights were on, but enough daylight seeped past curtain edges to offer each room they inspected modest illumination. They discovered a wet wool suit jacket dangling from the front staircase banister, saturated socks and sopping, ruined leather shoes on the floor. The man lifted a sleeve and sniffed at it. "Seawater," he whispered. He gestured her to trail him to the closet under the stairs where he slid aside the false panel that revealed one of the house's satellite security systems. No one was visible on any of the cameras, which continued to record despite the door and window sensors deactivation. Pressing buttons, the man rewound footage until they saw the figure they were looking for, and tracked him as far as one of the basements.

"He's in the laboratory," the woman said.

"How can you tell?"

She pointed to one of the screens. "Do you see that faint glow there along that wall?" He thought perhaps he could if he squinted. "It's light emanating from behind the door."

Smiling, he asked her, "Shall we?"

She responded, "Lead the way."

He began to reset the system, but she stayed his hand. "Not until we know why he did it."

The pair made their way downstairs. The woman's eyes were well suited to low light, so the man merely kept a heavy Mag-Lite in his hand to use as a weapon if need be, off unless they actually needed it. Otherwise, he was armed with a few choice concealed weapons as always.

When they got to the door, she paused, listening. She could barely detect his voice and glanced up at her companion, who watched her reactions, trusting her instincts. Clearing her throat loudly, she knocked lightly and called, "Aloysius?"

Inside the lab, the pale man snapped to attention and turned haltingly toward the locked door. "Constance?" He hurried over to unlock it and welcomed the woman and his chauffer into the room. "I am actually rather glad to see you! Was I supposed to meet you yesterday?"

"Today," she answered, locked on the other occupant of the room and staring unabashedly.

"Has my watch stopped? Is the hour late?"

"It is not," she said. "I…had a feeling that you might need assistance."

"Is everything well?" the chauffer asked.

"Yes, very, Proctor. Has everyone returned or only the two of you?"

"Just we two," Constance told him. "Might I…be of help to you?"

With an odd look on his nearly garish features, Pendergast inhaled and failed to come up with a reason why he should not describe his visitor. "Constance Greene," he said, extending a hand toward her then sweeping it forward, "meet Amanda."

Constance smiled shyly and offered a polite nod. "Hello," she said very softly, her large eyes far more expressive than her words.

Amanda was sitting upright, straight, legs out before her. A number of medical items littered the table she sat on, a rolling tray table and the nearby counter tops. "'lo," the girl answered, cocking her head as she stared back at the newcomer.

"And, how did you meet?" Constance queried.

"That…is the most amazing part…or not," Pendergast answered, watching his ward observe the stranger like a composer studying her audience the first time they listened to one of her sonatas.

"Is she…healthy?" the young woman asked, gesturing toward the many shiny implements.

"She may not actually be human," he said.

"Then, what might she be?"

"At the moment, my best guess though by no means my final one, would be that she is some form of a lab created genetic anomaly…possibly incorporating electronic components…even perhaps nano computers."

"An android?" Proctor tried, not believing anyone would agree with him.

"A cybernetic organism, bionic, androidal…merely mechanically enhanced…genetically engineered in the…most man-made sense."

"I do not believe that any technology upon the planet is this precise," Constance told him, edging closer, taking in as much as she could visually.

"You have no idea," her benefactor said almost breathlessly.

"The security system-"

"Please do make certain the property is secure," Pendergast said, nodding at the chauffer, who disappeared into the darkened hallway, clicking on his light. "I…apologize for my state and that of the house," he said, turning to replace some items where he had originally found them. "Did you call?"

"I did not. May I speak with her?"

"Do as you will."

The slender woman with the lovely face and old-fashioned demeanor stepped closer to their guest, her hands clasped lightly behind her back. "How do you do, Amanda?"

"Don't let her shrug," Aloysius instructed. "Make her answer."

"Amanda?" she tried again.

"O…kay."

"Where do you come from?" Constance asked.

The girl lifted a hand and pointed without breaking her gaze from the woman's. Constance turned her head and saw that she was indicating Aloysius.

"I don't understand," she tried again. "Where do you live?"

"Here," she said.

"In this home?"

"No."

"You live…in a similar place? Here in New York?"

The girl looked around. "…no…here in New York." She nodded.

"Has she suffered a traumatic injury or some kind of shock?" Constance queried.

"Not that I can tell. Her method of communication seems…off. I've found that I can usually comprehend what she means, but direct answers are often troublesome for her."

"There is a form of psychosis that presents in that manner," the woman mentioned.

"It would not surprise me to learn she suffers from some type of mental impairment."

"But…is she safe? Here? With us?"

The pale man set his lips in a grim line. "As yet, I have not ascertained such, although…I would say that she seems nearly protective of me."

The woman's large eyes narrowed. "Will you tell me where you found her?"

He smiled. "Not yet. I'd like you to continue examining her as you will. I hope that your perspective may shed some light on this mystery."

Constance unbuttoned her sleeves and pushed them upward, then reached to adjust her hair. "It seems warm in here, don't you think?"

He looked surprised. "I'm sure you're right. The hot lights and the closeness of the room…I will make adjustments to the climate controls." With that, he slipped away, leaving the door ajar.

Constance returned her gaze to the other female and allowed herself to sense beyond her basic physical senses. Rather innocent at first glance, the teen possessed an uncanny confidence or nonchalance the woman found unnerving. She felt as if the stranger radiated something…perhaps an energy field she could sense only subtly. If she stared long enough, she thought she detected a slight blurring behind her like waves of heat rippling upward from a hot asphalt street. At the moment, Constance thought it was her own worry making her tired, causing her to imagine things. "Do you live in Manhattan?"

"Yes."

"And…do you attend school?"

"No."

"Are your parents alive?"

Amanda shrugged, making a strange face, then corrected herself. "No. I don't know. Don't think so."

"Do you…frequent hospitals? Do you often go to see doctors, or scientists perhaps?"

"Yes."

"May I touch you? I assure you it is for examination purposes only."

"'kay."

She remained still while the newcomer bent a little and pressed the back of her right hand to her forehead. "You're very cool…but not clammy. Should anything I do bother you at all, please let me know and I will stop immediately." She took hold of the inky black hair and allowed it to slide across her fingers. It was so soft it nearly felt oily, and every hair fell back into place most unnaturally. Constance leaned closer and peeked at the girl's scalp. If her hair was dyed, then it had been done recently, for the black was uniform though no genuine hair color she had ever seen before in her life. The faint, yet noticeable electric blue highlights bespoke a chemical origin. "May I pluck out a single hair?"

"'kay."

Without hesitation, she gripped a strand low near the skull and pulled smoothly, turning with it to gaze upon beneath the lighted magnifying lens.

"Have you found something?" Pendergast asked as he returned, closing the laboratory door over.

"Sebum, and no doubt DNA."

"Really?" He peered over her shoulder. "You liberated one of her hairs…congratulations. I was unable to scrape anything whatsoever from beneath her nails, clip her nails, get a skin sample, or turn up anything in her saliva. As a matter of fact, I discovered that her entire exterior is absolutely sterile and remains so despite attempts to befoul her."

"It sounds as though you have been very thorough."

"I did not take a hair. May I?"

She forfeited the sample and returned to the teenager. "How old are you, Amanda?"

The girl glanced aside, thinking. "Not sure."

"Were I to guess…I might believe that you are…sixteen?"

"I thought perhaps younger," Pendergast said, activating an electronic microscope and opening the program on his computer that would allow him to manipulate and record the data.

"Has she…." Constance chose to address the girl rather than her benefactor. "I beg your pardon. It is rude to speak of you as though you are not here. Have you experienced your menses?"

The girl's dark brows neared each other as she regarded her questioner. "Don't bleed."

"That, I'm afraid, is utterly so," Pendergast mentioned, toying with the microscope. "I attempted to draw blood and could not locate a vein. Nor a pulse, for that matter."

"No pulse?"

"And she lacks a heartbeat. I even attempted a simple finger prick and was unable to damage her skin…so far as I could tell."

"And this is why you suspect she is…enhanced in some way?"

He nodded distractedly.

Constance drew close again, studying the girls' face. Yes, she was still young, her features softly rounded. There was an elegance to the lines of her body. She was compact, well formed, and slender, though not waifishly as Constance herself was. She lifted a hand. The weight felt normal, but the skin was smooth and soft like talc. It appeared as flawless as plastic, but moved when plucked or depressed as skin should. Aside from her head, eyelashes and eyebrows, she appeared completely hairless. Constance lifted the hand to examine the nails. When she pushed at the ends they were not sharp, and the pale lilac color flashed pale, indicating healthy blood flow. "You said you attempted to trim her nails?"

"I cannot fathom what they might be made of."

She brought the magnifier over and saw that the fingernails were also perfectly smooth, the cuticles uniform and neat. "They are flexible like human nails." A thought occurred to her. "Have you asked her what she is?"

There was a pause, and then Aloysius chuckled very softly. "Sometimes we overlook the most simple solutions."

"Amanda?"

"Yes?" The girl responded, completely relaxed, never twitching the arm that the other female held.

"What, exactly, are you?"

"I…am Quasar."

"You are what?"

Now she withdrew her arm defensively. "Quasar," she repeated, looking away and pouting a little.

"What did she say?" asked Pendergast.

"It sounded like _quasar_…but perhaps she said…" and she dared not say it in case she was wrong and she offended the strange girl.

"_Crazy?"_ he filled in. "Amanda? Could you repeat that? Could you tell us what you are one more time? And speak loudly, my dear. Enunciate."

Inhaling first, she turned back toward the pair and finally said rather plainly, _"Quasar."_

Constance gazed at Pendergast. "Does she mean crazy?"

He regarded the teen with some amusement, then turned back to the computer screen, sliding the image of her hair follicle to one side so he could open another window. "Let us see what this will yield us."

"Do you believe it is a code word? The name of the laboratory where they…work with her?"

"A brand name?" he continued, working at the keyboard.

"Was there a logo on the hair? A serial number?"

"All I can tell is that the shaft is as smooth as plastic, and that there is some type of fluid clinging to the root. It does not appear to be human hair. I have not yet attempted an analysis of it."

Constance turned and jumped, one hand flying to her chest. Aloysius whipped around, ready to defend her. Amanda stood immediately behind them, trying to see what they were doing.

"I'm sorry! I didn't hear you climb down from the table!"

Pendergast shook his head, smirking. "Forgive me, Constance, I forgot to mention that she moves fluidly and without sound like a ninja."

"Are you teasing me?"

He shook his head. "Not at all."

"Are you human?" she asked the girl, still leaning away from her.

Amanda lifted her arms and turned them, looking them over before letting her gaze drop to her body and feet. "Yes."

"Isn't she priceless?" Pendergast asked, his fingers busy at the computer.

"I suspect she might actually be deadly."

"It is a distinct possibility," he admitted, entering _quasar_ as a keyword in a basic search. "I am not altogether certain she has not been sent here on some sort of intelligence gathering mission. She may be scoping out the premises for someone that they might attempt to gain entry later. She may be somehow recording everything we say and do."

"I meant…that I noticed that my hands felt tingly when I was touching her. Did you say she is sterile? Is it because she exudes some type of deadly toxin?"

"You noticed that, did you?" He scrolled through a list of possible results. "The longer you remain in contact with her bare skin, the drowsier you will become. The effect, however, ceases the moment one breaks contact, and I have been unable to isolate any traces of anything that might cause the sensation."

Constance reached a tentative hand toward the girl and lightly stroked her hair. "She _breathes_, Aloysius…her movements are graceful, but natural…she blinks…her nostrils flare."

"She will blush if you strike her."

"You found it necessary to strike her?"

"It was an experiment," he told her, adding more information to the search.

"Have you a last name?" Constance asked the girl.

"Only 'manda."

"Is that what everyone calls you?"

"One sixty-nine," she replied.

Constance looked at Pendergast and he nodded and added the number to his search.

"There is an actual anomaly, a quasi-stellar object designated 169…," he mentioned, scanning the results.

Constance closed her eyes for a moment. "I cannot believe she is of an extra-terrestrial origin."

"That would be extremely difficult to believe," he agreed, "and yet…as you mentioned…the technology required to create something as delicate and precise as she is…does not at this time exist anywhere on Earth."

"Then she must be lab-created. Another…_experiment_," she said, not caring to use the adjective, _Nazi._

"She must be something secretive. I have attempted numerous searches based upon the limited information I have gained from her and learned nothing at all, even via covert means."

Constance tried, "Do you speak German?"

"No."

"Spanish?"

"No."

"Any dialect of Chinese?"

"No."

"Do you only know English?"

"Yes."

"Then her creators most likely speak English."

"That's an excellent notion," Pendergast agreed, "although she does not speak it altogether well."

"Her mannerisms seem very…contemporary teen."

"She struggles to make herself understood," he said. "There is a definite issue there. I believe she comprehends very well, but is not always able to put her thoughts into words."

"Were you involved in an accident?" Constance asked, taking her gently by the arm and leading her back to the examination table.

"No."

"She may not remember," the woman said.

Pendergast closed the Internet connection and frowned, watching the girl. "If you are One sixty-nine, do you remember someone who was called One sixty-eight?"

"No."

"Do you know anyone else who is or was referred to by numbers, as you are?"

"N…no…maybe two-hundred?"

"And two-hundred is like you?"

"No," she answered, shuddering as she let her gaze drop. "Dead."

Pendergast addressed the girl in broken German, _"Did you kill two-hundred?"_

"No," she responded without hesitation, as though she had understood him clearly.

He asked, _"Are you able to understand what I am saying to you? Do you know what language I am speaking? Have you heard anyone speak to you in this language before?"_

She glared at him, her eyes shifting back and forth between his. "I understand. Speak English!" she demanded.

"Fascinating," he muttered, lifting a hand to his jaw as he contemplated what this revelation might mean.

The silence grew uncomfortable, so Pendergast's ward finally asked, "Are you thirsty, my dear? Would you care for some refreshment?"

Amanda blinked. "Okay."

"She eats and drinks?"

"She was eating a sandwich when I found her…no…that was just a dream…."

"You dreamed of her?" Constance asked him.

"Ah, that is where we first met."

She turned more fully toward him. "Aloysius…are you well?"

"I could use some refreshment," he answered, shutting the computer down and seeking a glassine bag to place the hair sample within.

The woman held out her hand. "Come with me, Amanda. Let us find something to tide us over until supper."


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

They watched her take soup from a spoon. She hadn't cared for the soup spoon, and so Constance had finally managed to satisfy her with a long-handled iced-tea spoon. The girl ate mechanically, her movements precise as a clock and exactly the same with every bit she sampled. They offered her toast points, and she ate each one in turn, crunching them methodically into non-existence. They asked if she was full and she looked at them strangely. "No."

"We have more soup," Constance mentioned, arising from the dining room table. "I'll heat it. Would you like more toast to go with it?"

The girl nodded, saw Pendergast frowning at her, and then amended, "Please."

When she returned, she was alarmed to find the girl alone. Constance moved toward the far exit and glimpsed Proctor there, studying the stranger. "He went downstairs. Said he'd be right back," the man explained.

Satisfied, Constance returned to the table and ladled steaming soup into Amanda's bowl. "It's very hot," she told the girl. "You may have to blow on it."

Amanda did not blow on it. She ate it the exact same way she had the first two bowls.

Intrigued, Constance took a little in her own empty bowl and lifted it to her lips with her spoon. She made a face when the liquid scalded her mouth and watched the teenager in incredulity. Reaching for her hand, she halted her progress. "Please indulge me," she said, using a forefinger and thumb to pry the other girl's lips apart. Her flesh appeared unscalded from lips to gums. "May I see your tongue?" Amanda opened her mouth and the woman tilted her head to make certain of what she was seeing in the fading afternoon light.

"If you'll excuse me," Pendergast said, re-entering the room with his stethoscope dangling from his ears.

"Do you believe the soup has warmed her heart?" Constance joked.

"Still eating?"

Amanda watched him.

"Do continue. As before, if my actions bother you, then by all means instruct me to stop."

"What are you going to do?" Constance queried.

"I want to listen to her abdomen."

Amanda, with a small sigh, resumed her meal while the man crouched at her side and lifted the hem of her shirt enough to slip a hand beneath it. He gazed toward Constance as he pressed the disc-shaped end to the teenager's cool flesh, just beneath her rib cage and listened. Every bit of soup sounded like a trickle. The toast made a soft plop shortly after she had swallowed it. He gently pushed against her and heard the liquid move. Then he lowered the stethoscope to her belly and listened, but never heard any further gastric activity.

"This is her third bowl?"

Constance nodded.

Pendergast asked the woman to refill her water glass from the sweating pitcher on the sideboard. It was done and he encouraged the girl to drink. "Is there any more soup?"

"There is a case in the pantry. Are you trying to make her-"

He waved off the last word before it was spoken. "Keep filling her glass," he said, listening as it was downed.

Amanda had consumed three bowls of romaine soup, eight slices of toast, and a pitcher plus one glass of cold water.

"Full yet?"

The strange look reappeared.

"Would you care for some dessert?" Constance asked her.

"Okay," came the response.

The other female departed and Aloysius pulled a chair close to the girl's. "When you need to relieve yourself, would you be willing to fill a cup for me?"

"Relieve myself?"

"Evacuate your bladder?"

"When I what?"

"When you need to use the restroom…the toilet specifically."

Her look grew more skeptical with every attempt to make her understand. "For what?"

"I…only wish to run a couple of tests. As you saw, my laboratory is minimally stocked at best-"

"Test…what?"

"Your waste. Your urine."

"No," she said, shaking her head and smiling at him as if she was relieved.

"Forgive me, I have asked too much," he said, replacing his chair and seating himself upon it.

"No," she said, extending a hand toward his. "Never."

"Never…ask too much? I could never…is that what you're saying? Or is it that you would never allow me to test your urine?"

"No," she replied, smiling beatifically at him.

He released a soft sigh. "Does everyone have such a difficult time conversing with you?"

"Yes."

Constance beckoned from the doorway and he excused himself to join her in the brief corridor between the dining room and kitchen. "I feel I must inform you, Aloysius, that you seem to be taking things too far."

"It occurred to me that she has never asked for a restroom since she's been here. I only wished to ascertain-"

"How long has she been here?"

"She arrived…this morning?"

"You seem uncertain."

"I…." He inhaled sharply. "I should tell you how I met her, how she came to be here."

"Maybe you should."

He asked, "Is there a dessert?"

"Be patient. I'll bring one out soon."

With a weak smile, he returned to the dining room where the girl remained, seated and still. "I believe it may be ice cream."

"Okay."

"What is your favorite flavor?"

"Dunno."

"Have you ever tried ice cream?"

"Yes."

Everyone had a favorite flavor! "They let you eat some in the laboratory?"

"No."

"Is there a parlor you enjoy visiting?"

"A what?"

He tried, "An ice-cream parlor or shop? Or, do you prefer a store-brand?"

"Eat at home," she told him.

"Is it home-made? Does someone cook for you? Do you cook, Amanda?"

As he watched her eyes grew larger but dimmer as with some memory, and her jaw went a little slack.

"Are you all right? Do you need to use the restroom?"

"Um…I'm all right. Uh…sometimes take-out…sometimes cooks…."

"Cooks?" he repeated, leaning forward with interest. "Who cooks for you?"

"My…partner."

The pale man's eyebrows wrinkled. "Your…work partner? A…a romantic interest?"

"Yes," she answered, meeting his gaze again.

"Do you…love him? Or her? Or, does he or she love you?"

"…yes," she answered slowly, and he could see she was having difficulty with his phrasing.

"Is it a he or a she?"

"He."

"Your partner is a male?"

"Yes."

Constance arrived with three small tulip-shaped stemmed bowls on a tray. "Perhaps this spoon will suit you," she said, placing a dessert spoon in the girl's hand. She set a bowl heaped with ice cream before her, then served Pendergast and finally herself, using the tray to carry the spent soup bowls and used spoons to the sideboard.

Pendergast looked askance at the nearly overflowing decadence she had set before their guest, then at his own very small scoop and Constance's mere spoonful. The woman caught his glance and smiled.

"Is it butter pecan?" he asked, lifting his spoon.

"It is peach cobbler."

"Peach cobbler ice cream?"

"It's very nice," she told him.

Amanda dug into it and consumed it in the same efficient, almost robotic manner as she had her soup. The pair waited for her to say something about the dessert, but she was as silent as she had been when she'd consumed her main course.

"Thank you," he pointedly told the woman sitting across from him.

"You are very welcome," she replied.

They both looked Amanda's way, but she merely put down her clean spoon and sighed over her empty bowl

.

"Would you care-" Constance began, but her benefactor gestured for her to not go there.

"Too far," he said softly, shaking his head.

She allowed herself a slight smirk.

"Are you full?" he asked the teenager.

"No."

"Do you ever feel full?" Constance tried.

"No."

"Oh." Now she made a face of consternation. If the girl could not feel pain, heat, or cold, then perhaps she also lacked the ability to feel satiated after eating or drinking. "We did not mean to encourage you so," she said, looking worried.

Amanda looked back at her and said nothing.

Aloysius rolled his eyes innocently. "Amanda says she has a partner."

"What kind of partner?"

"Big," the girl told them.

"A big male," Pendergast clarified.

"A big male what?" Constance asked, feeling a little silly.

"He cooks for her, I think," Pendergast told her.

"Oh, a chef?"

"Used to be," Amanda said, but looked uncertain.

"Your partner…is a former chef?" The special agent appeared intrigued in the manner he might with someone he suspected of telling bald-faced lies. "How interesting. What was his specialty?"

Pale blue eyes roved the linen tablecloth. "Steak."

"Ah," said Pendergast, nodding brightly at his ward, _"steak."_

"_Mmm,"_ Constance hummed agreeably, also suspecting they were being lied to.

"If you'll pardon the interruption," Proctor suddenly spoke from the doorway, "You have a visitor, sir."

For a moment, Pendergast faltered, fearing that someone had come to claim his fascinating visitor. "Have they identified themselves?"

"It is Lieutenant D'Agosta, sir."

Blinking at Constance as he dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin, he stole a glance at the teen before rising and excusing himself.

Vincent had wandered into the setting room and did not immediately turn around when he heard Pendergast approach. "Greetings, Vincent. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Business, I'm afraid," responded the New York City cop. He wore a half-grin, but his eyes were very serious. "Your name came up."

Pendergast thought about his rescue from Rat Island. "That does not surprise me."

"The first time it was a call-in from two cops on water patrol. Apparently they found you shipwrecked on Rat Island?"

"Shipwrecked implies a ship," the pale man informed him lightly.

"Or something of that nature," the larger man agreed. "You said you were on business?"

"Something of that nature."

The man's face looked taut. "I…really have no interest in getting involved in anything that I don't have to," he said.

Pendergast strode to a chair and sat upon it, crossing his legs. "I have no need of your services at this time," he told him.

"Right. But the other thing…was the complaint that came in. Not your name, specifically, this time, but your _address_."

"My…oh, yes. The taxi driver."

"The taxi driver," Vincent confirmed, his thumbs hooked behind his belt. "Was it, by any chance, Corrie you were with?"

Pendergast hesitated. "It was not."

"A relative? Neighbor's kid?" the policeman tried, wincing a little.

"You don't wish to get involved," the pale man said, extending his palms.

"Oh, no. No. I definitely do not. But…I still have a report to fill out. I think the cops called her Amanda?"

"Yes. That's what I told them."

The large man withdrew a notebook from a pocket and a pen from a different pocket. "What's the last name?"

"I have not yet discovered that."

"So, she's not here, right?"

Cutting his eyes toward the dining room, the agent said, "Yes. She is my houseguest."

"Is she a witness to somethin'? Part of a case?"

"Well, I could tell you that she seems to be her own special case."

"If…I was actually that interested."

Pendergast smiled thinly. "I've already researched several databases online, but if you could be so generous as to run a few more for me?"

Rolling his eyes, the big man asked gruffly, "Whaddaya want to know?"

"And there she is," Aloysius said softly, gazing toward the doorway. Amanda looked small as she stood behind the policeman, gazing up at him searchingly. "Please come in. Don't be afraid. Amanda, this is my dear friend Vincent D'Agosta."

She looked disappointed as he turned to stare at her. She looked behind herself, then stepped farther into the room to glance around.

"Hello, Amanda," Vincent grunted.

She regarded him unhappily. "'lo," she said, her gaze dropping. They watched her extend a toe and trace arcs on the hand-carved rug.

D'Agosta turned to gauge Pendergast's reaction. "And?"

"You want an explanation, and I'm afraid there is no easy one."

"I…just need to know there's nothing…_weird_," he said, wincing a little at the word, "going on."

"The taxi driver indicated that he thought I might be a kidnapper, perhaps a pedophile."

"That's why I'm here. I'd never believe it, but I gotta tell my supervisor somethin' definite, right?"

The girl stepped closer to the newcomer, looking up at him strangely.

"What?" he asked, extending his hands to either side. "You need to speak to me in private, Miss?"

Shaking her head, she moved past him toward Pendergast. Vincent was about to say something else, when she shocked both of them by attempting to climb onto Aloysius' lap. "I will forfeit the chair if you prefer it," Pendergast said quickly, rising to his feet and stepping away from her. She stood blinking at him uncertainly.

Constance had arrived in the doorway and paused there, uncertain if she was needed or not.

Amanda turned to glance at Vinnie, then looked back at Pendergast, her eyes never rising farther than his chest. He set his hands upon her shoulders. "It's all right. You…surprised me, that's all."

She smiled up at him, then turned to stand defensively before him.

"Okay," D'Agosta said, closing his eyes for a quick head shake. "What's the story?"

Constance chose a chair and seated herself. Vincent did a double-take when he went to find a seat of his own; he hadn't heard the young woman enter. Dragging the chair closer to his friend's, he slouched into it and waited. Pendergast gestured for him to put away the notebook. He did so, and the agent moved to the mantle to lean against it while he told the tale.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

When he had completed his story he was met with looks of blatant skepticism.

"You could have just said you didn't want to say anything, then sent me packing," Vincent grumbled, pinching the flesh between his eyebrows.

"You cannot tell if you are dreaming or not?" Constance asked, horrified.

"I would say I am as wide awake as the two of you appear to be," he admitted, "yet…there is still something so odd, so peculiar about this entire scenario-"

"They have pills for that at the loony bin," Vincent said, only half joking.

"Constance, you can verify everything that you yourself have witnessed."

"That is so," she said, looking down at her hands in her lap. "We don't believe she is entirely human."

"So she's a Nazi experiment? _Another_ one?"

"I have not positively ascertained that," Pendergast admitted. "But you are welcome to see for yourself…."

"So she has no body hair and doesn't talk coherently. That makes her…genetically superior or something?"

"She doesn't feel pain."

"There's a disease like that right? People who can't feel pain. They get their legs and arms broken and get burned in the bath tub and stuff."

"Yes," Pendergast said. "I tried to find a report of a missing girl with that illness. Nothing came up."

"But…we don't know how long she's actually been missing for," the police officer pointed out. "Maybe it hasn't been that long." Standing, he rocked back and forth on his feet, then mentioned, "I can't believe you smelled her boot."

"Vincent…I don't know how to prove to you what I've said. She's…something extraordinary. There may be people after her now. Looking for her. She speaks of being tested in a laboratory…."

"Clearly, this upsets you," D'Agosta mentioned. "I'm not certain I've ever seen you worked up over something so much before. Do you want I should find a place for her while I try and find out where she might be missing from?"

Pendergast drew his lower lip between his teeth and looked pensive. "I…am not certain it is safe for her to remain here…and yet I'd like more time to try and figure her out."

The cop sighed. "Your call."

The pale man lifted a hand to his upper lip and stood still, thinking. There was a flicker in the entranceway, and soon Proctor made an appearance, checking to ensure that all of the doors and windows were secure. "Another storm on the way, sir," he said, entering the room.

Amanda stood slightly in front of Pendergast, watching D'Agosta. She had kept herself between the two the entire time. "Draw down on me, Vincent."

"Do what?"

"Indulge me," the agent urged quietly. He glanced toward Proctor, who stood at attention, and Constance, who leaned forward in her chair out of morbid curiosity.

"You know you should never-"

"Keep your finger away from the trigger. Just hold it and point."

"I don't like this," Vincent said, pulling his sidearm from his shoulder holster beneath his jacket. He stared at the girl the entire time. His arm extended. He blinked at the blur he'd just seen. He felt a searing pain in his chest followed by a sickening lurch and choked on his reply.

There was a gasp, a whisper, and Pendergast stepped forward, mouth open in astonishment.

Amanda's face was cold, her pale eyes glittering up at the cop's contorted features. Vincent kicked wildly in the air, clawing at his chest. Spittle flew from his lips. He could feel his blood pressure spiking. As he struggled ineffectually he saw his friend glide forward and feel the girl's bicep. She was stock-still, not even straining. He gripped her upper arm and eased it upward slightly, then down again, amazed while D'Agosta coughed and spluttered. "Put him down," the agent whispered, guiding her arm gently. The girl never shifted position, never let on that she was anything weaker than a commercial-sized manufacturing robot. D'Agosta's flailing feet touched the floor and he wheezed a sound of terrified relief, but continued clawing at the girl's fist, then striking her arm with the full force of his fists. "Release him," spoke the cadaverous man, and her fist opened automatically.

D'Agosta wanted to attack her. His firearm had hit the floor. He turned away, bent, clutching at his chest while the older woman gasped and tried to attend him.

Proctor came at the teenager in a dead sprint and found himself slammed into one of the built-in bookcases upside-down while Aloysius commanded her to stop. She turned to look him in the eyes and query, "Are you okay?" He stared back at her incredulously, his heart racing, and placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling like he was moving in slow motion.

"I am fine," he told her haltingly, astonished by the fact she wasn't breathing hard, her pupil size remained the same, and her skin had failed to flush with exhilaration. "Don't move."

He turned to make certain his chauffer was okay. The man had hit the floor shoulder-first and groaned there, his backside still partially propped up against shattered shelving, fallen volumes surrounding him. "Proctor?"

"I'll…live," the man replied.

Pendergast hurried to his friend's side. "Your heart! Are you okay?"

"'snot my heart," he grunted, breathing hard, pressing his hands to his solar plexus. "She had hold of my _skin_!"

Constance and Aloysius worked to help open the man's shirt and lift his badly stretched undershirt, exposing a chest covered in broad marks beginning to turn purple-black.

"_Amanda,"_ Pendergast breathed, shaken by her awesome display of superhuman speed and strength.

"Yes?" she answered from so close beside him that he jumped.

"How…did…could…?"

"Gun," she told him, shrugging.

"I _asked_ him to point his gun at me. I had no idea you would…do _this_ to him."

"You knew she'd do something," D'Agosta accused, trying to move away from the two.

"Let me get you cold compresses," Constance said, moving for the doorway.

"Just get me outta here!" Vincent growled, staggering toward the exit.

"Not to shoot you?" the teen asked the pale man.

"He would _never _shoot me! We are _friends_! And I assure you young lady that I choose to keep only a very select few!"

She set her jaw and approached D'Agosta while his eyes went wide and he tried to hurry away from her. Pendergast angrily stepped in her path and she pushed him aside like a shower curtain. _"You I'd_ _shoot!"_ Vincent told her, turning to scramble for the door.

"_Leave him alone!"_ Aloysius commanded angrily, grabbing her around the waist and getting dragged for his efforts.

Constance reappeared with one of Pendergast's handguns pointed at the girl. "He told you to leave him _alone! Stop!_ Stop _now_ or I'll shoot!"

Pendergast released the girl. _"No!"_ he blurted at his ward.

"She's _dangerous!_" she informed him sternly.

"Don't provoke her!" he pleaded, catching up to her just as she reached his friend.

"_No!"_ Vincent groaned, spinning toward her when she seized his arm. Amanda placed a palm flat against his heaving chest and lowered her head, closing her eyes. D'Agosta flailed at her, not even able to muss her hair, before his breathing slowed and he began to straighten up again.

Constance and Aloysius drew nearer, watching the lines of color shrink and fade from Vincent's tormented skin. He relaxed until he nearly looked drowsy, lifting a hand to run through his own wild hair. Looking at the spectators, he asked breathlessly, "What _is_ this?"

"Are you okay?" Constance asked, reaching to pull at the girl's wrist.

"Vincent," Pendergast tried, "I had no idea, I assure you-"

"I know," he said. "Otherwise, she'd a killed me…whatever the hell she is." His breath caused the hairs on her head to move, but she remained in contact with him until even the woman trying to pry her away yawned and blinked furiously, trying to stave off sleep.

"Aloysius?" Constance asked softly.

"I think he's okay," he told the girl softly. She opened her eyes and stepped away from him. The police officer's flesh was unmarked, his breathing normal.

He nodded thankfully, then looked worriedly at the teenager.

"Amanda…would you tend to Proctor?" the agent asked.

She turned and left them, kneeling beside the large man who had slumped to the floor, trying to sit up but experiencing pain.

"I don't know what you found or how it got here," Vincent whispered, "but it's dangerous as hell. I think it's some kind of a weapon. I think you're crazy to keep messing with it. Someone's looking for that baby, and they'll probably use it against you when they find it."

"Clearly, it is a _she_," Pendergast responded.

"Whatever. It's not something any one of us needs to be messing with. Now let's see if I can take it with me-"

"No," Pendergast told him, watching the girl work her magic on his bodyguard. "She cannot be a weapon. Weapons don't heal."

"Well, whatever _she_ is," he spat, "you don't wanna be messing with her."

Constance said, "I don't feel safe with her here."

"See? Someone with sense," D'Agosta told him.

"She was protecting me. I knew she probably would, though not to the extent she did… She even allowed me to command her-"

"She tossed you aside like a used tissue!" Constance reminded him.

"She didn't hurt me."

"She didn't listen to your command to leave Vincent alone!"

Proctor was rising to his feet uncertainly, clearly not hurt, though undoubtedly still stunned.

"I…believe she…."

"Oh, come on!" Vincent growled, then caught a glimpse of the teenager staring at him. "It's okay, sweetheart, we're just having a nice conversation!" He smiled and waved at her.

"Are you in on this?" Pendergast asked suddenly.

"Am what?"

"Are you in on this? You know nearly everything that I do. I could use your assistance. I might…need your help."

"Oh, for Pete's sake," the cop grumbled. "I knew this wouldn't be a simple courtesy call."

"If you would just run the information I'll give you…what little I know. Take her photograph—I can't fingerprint her."

"Give me the hair and I can run DNA."

Pendergast looked reluctant, then realized he could always gather a fresh one if need be. "Constance," he said.

"I really don't want her here," she told him.

"Then perhaps you should return upstate to await further word from me."

She looked troubled. "I'd rather not leave you."

"Cripes, lady," D'Agosta blurted, "you think you can stop a charging elephant?"

Amanda cocked her head. Proctor slowly made his way away from her. As he approached the other three, he asked, "What just happened?"

"I'll keep her in the basement," Pendergast sighed. "Until someone shows up for her…or we hear something from you, Vincent."

"You're going to keep her?" Proctor asked, rolling his eyes heavenward before making his way to a bathroom so he could check on himself and clean himself up.

"If she's a robot, she might have a homing device, she could be recording you," Vincent pointed out.

"More than ever, I believe that may be what she is. Some kind of a living…mechanoid. Even Alban didn't have such strength."

"Then you might be a target," Vincent said. "I could find a reason to lock her up."

"I am reluctant to give up on her so easily."

"She may have been sent to find you," Constance told him. "Possibly to eliminate you."

"She's had ample opportunity to do so."

"What if she's malfunctioning?"

"Then perhaps I can find a way to utilize her for myself."

Vincent sighed and shook his head. "You're keeping her."

"I am unafraid of anyone who might come looking for her."

"What if it's another one just like her?"

He recalled her mentioning a Quasar 200. "Then I shall take my chances."

Vincent groaned, "I knew he was gonna say that."

"I'll stay in the basement," Constance said, and the lights dimmed momentarily as the storm neared. She met his look with, "I'd rather she remain easy to locate should someone home in on her whereabouts."

Pendergast smiled grimly. "As you wish. If Proctor is okay, you can have him help you set up a comfortable area."

She looked at him sadly. "I will always be on the verge of losing you, won't I?"

He touched her cheek lightly, then apologized again to D'Agosta.

"No marks," the other man mentioned, smoothing his clothes back into place. Won't have to go into too much detail for Laura."

"Give her my best," Pendergast said.

"Yeah, yeah. Holy crap…what a friggin' nuthouse," the cop joked weakly.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Sometime after D'Agosta had departed, after Pendergast had made his intentions clear that he would be staying up late, after Constance had taken a light supper with Proctor for company, strange noises could be heard deep within the old mansion.

It was a throwback to days gone by when wealth was expressed in what some referred to as luxury and others as senseless waste. The house rambled, the property taking up nearly an entire block, with small towers, grand archways, and a general castle or medieval church feel as opposed to say an old country estate. It was imposing despite how it was dwarfed by other nearby structures, a home suitable for a large family of multiple generations plus an entire staff to serve them, nearly unseen. After learning that he had come into possession of the site, Pendergast had spent some time thoughtfully planning on a few interior alterations, which he generally had done when he was not in use of the property. Towards the rear of the structure was a grand hall for entertaining, no doubt designed for whimsical holiday affairs and the occasional ball. With its high ceiling and vast empty footage, the current owner had seen its value as a gymnasium, and installed storage for various types of equipment, rewired more efficient lighting, reinforced the floors, and installed a couple of mirrors along the walls. Where once string quartets or even brass on a merrier day might have occupied a raised corner, long tables full of pastilles, crudités, cold meats, or chilled fruits may have lined one of the walls, where wicker furnishings may have provided rest for those weary of dancing and portable screens had sectioned off areas for more private conversation, there were now only ghosts of festivities past fading into spaces wherever dust managed to evade the housekeeper or the occasional errant cobweb might alight.

Attired in loose black leggings that tied at the waist in an older Asian style, barefooted and shirtless, Pendergast practiced walking on his hands and shadowboxed in a corner where he thought phantom musicians might attempt to dodge his blows and kicks while playing melancholy tunes only other ghosts could hear. He warmed up with a jump rope, and when he felt ready, bowed lightly toward the teenaged girl who stood, bored, idly gazing about, for the most part ignoring him.

He had already asked her to move his equipment about, the huge, heavy Nautilus workout contraptions, the antique medicine ball, his free weights, and she had acquiesced to his every whim without effort, without complaint, lifting stacks of metal discs like they weighed no more than old record albums, so that he actually laughed out loud at the spectacle. No weight seemed too great for her. And it was not even a matter of leverage, for she did not lean far back behind the stacks of weights, did not bend and haul with her lower body when he asked her to reposition his gorgeous aspen wood rowing machine. It was as if everything he owned was made of Polystyrene and balsa wood, Mylar instead of steel. Never did she grunt or break a sweat, never did she hesitate or even breath a little harder. He took her before one of the mirrored panels and gently prodded her arm, her back, and one leg. Then he had her lie upon his weight bench so he could press against the skeleton he could feel, which felt perfectly normal within her. She said nothing while he put her joints through their full range of motions, eventually bending her backward gently over the bench until she could put her hands down and bridge it.

He helped her upright and knelt on one side of the bench, his right arm raised. "Arm wrestle me." The girl knelt opposite him and set an elbow on the bench before taking his larger, warmer hand in her own. He repositioned her elbow, adjusted his grip, and then said, "Now!" At which point she slammed his arm so deeply into the padded surface that the indentation remained for an unusually long time. He broke free of her and examined his arm, wrist and hand. Everything intact, no harm done. "I cannot believe you are mechanical in any way, because you know precisely how much force to use to achieve your goal without causing me harm." She watched him complacently through half-lidded eyes. "And yet, I believe you could have put your hand right through Vincent's ribcage, or Proctor entirely through the wall had you wished it."

She nodded mutely.

After positioning her more or less in the center of the room with dense, though not especially thick gym mats about them, he had faced her and performed his slight bow. "Your turn," he instructed, and she looked surprised for a moment, but bowed anyway until he told her she could rise again. "I will come at you, and I wish you to deflect my attacks without hurting me."

In a room designated as the security suite Proctor sat in a leather swivel chair with his fingers steepled before his face, a mug of cooling coffee on a coaster on the desk before him. "This should be interesting."

Just behind him, half perched on the edge of a small, sturdy desk that housed a wireless printer, Constance stared past him at the monitor that showed them exactly what Pendergast was up to. "Should he trigger something in her…or should she somehow…malfunction…."

"He didn't join the FBI to overcome meekness."

Pendergast studied the girl. She affected no defensive stance whatsoever. If anything, she appeared as though she might wander off to nap or find a better way to entertain herself. "If I manage to harm you," he began then blinked in surprise as she broke into a huge grin. "All right then." He paused, then ran at her, hands held like knives at his sides, arms working to support the motion of his legs. In the brief span of time it took to reach her, he watched for some sign of her intention. He thought to tackle her, toss her over his shoulder, and prove she was vulnerable because of her small stature. At the last second he dropped his chest, seized her, whipped around her body like he'd tackled a lamppost, his momentum breaking his grip, and landed short of a mat on his hip, sliding.

Proctor slammed a fist on the desk beside a keyboard, unaware he'd made Constance jump. "Did you see that? What happened?"

The pale man rose slowly, making certain he hadn't damaged himself in anyway. Amanda stood nonchalant, peering toward a window shade with interesting shadows upon it from the wind-whipped greenery outside. His hip was sore from the impact and his side ached a little where his bare skin had slid over well polished wooden flooring. He neared the girl, frustrated that her clothing remained perfect instead of half wound around her body. "Are you okay?" he queried sarcastically, walking a circle around her.

"Uh-huh."

"Forgive me," he said, stooping to encircle her lower body in his arms and lifting her from behind. She didn't exclaim or flail. She didn't weigh any more or less than he would have guessed, either. He set her down and her long hair drifted up into his face. "Let me fix this," he said, taking hold of the black strands and dividing them into sections he then quickly braided like a rope. "Hold this," he told her, handing her the thick end. He went to a closet where he located two unsharpened pencils and returned to push them through her hair after coiling the braid up into an impromptu bun. "Better."

Proctor turned and looked at Constance. She was wearing a light robe over her nightgown, satin ballet style slippers on her feet, and a gauzy mobcap over her wavy brown locks. She ignored him, still watching the surveillance screen.

Pendergast turned the girl as though to examine his handiwork, then dropped her, catching her lower spine on his left palm, easing her to his knee, then the floor in one fluid movement. He smiled down at her, then performed an unexpected backflip when one of her vise-like hands seized his ankle and threw him airborne. He landed on his feet in a bouncing crouch, already poised for her next attack while she rolled lazily onto her side and propped her head up on her fist.

"Who trained you?"

"Happenstance."

He chuckled his disbelief. "No one learns techniques like these through mere happenstance." He approached her and offered a hand to help her up. She rose gracefully like a dancer and stood awaiting his next command.

Pendergast turned away from her, then spun, one hand outstretched to smack her in the face like a wooden board. She caught his wrist and elbow, and spun backward into him, sending him sprawling across the floor in a dervish. He corrected himself and launched at her in a high, two-part kick. She dodged into his arc, ducked below him, then planted a foot against his lower back so that he staggered across the floor knees bent, shoulders thrown backward. He whirled and couldn't find her. Maintaining a defensive posture, breathing evenly but hard, he stalked a wide circle, seeking her. The room was large and mostly empty. Perplexed, he finally stopped and straightened. Arms caught his neck and he was lifted off his feet and dropped directly in front of her. She smiled at him pleasantly. He whipped his head back and forth toward the mirrors, aware he had _not_ seen her in any of them a moment ago.

"Where did she come from?" Proctor sputtered, as into the event as any hockey game attendee.

Constance had been following the action as closely as possible, and even she had failed to see the teen vanish or the exact moment she had seemingly reappeared. "Track back a few frames."

"Nuh-uh. I'm recording everything. We can watch it all again later. I'm not missing anything."

Pendergast grinned back, relishing the challenge. It had been years since he had sparred with a worthy opponent. His light skin glistened with moisture and his eyes were large and luminous with excitement.

Amanda seemed happy to be pleasing him, though not overly thrilled with the proceedings.

He brought a leg up swiftly to take hers from under her, encountered resistance like the side of a building and half-spun before falling. It had been a long time since he had attempted it, but he rocked himself straight backward, then threw his hips up and forward, landing on his feet in a low crouch, pleased he could still manage the trick.

The nonplussed kid just watched him as though she considered him very run-of-the-mill at best.

"How is it that the laws of physics fail to apply to you?"

"Breaking the law?" she asked.

"Never mind," he said. Pendergast struck forward from the waist with a fist that froze right beside her face. He drew back, throwing out a false blow with the left fist before following through with another direct hit from the right…that again failed to make contact. He kicked with his left leg and she was already out of the way, his right leg swept where hers had been a moment ago, and he followed through by completing the spin, sending his fist toward the side of her head like a freight train. There was no time to duck, to dodge…but there was no contact. His momentum carried him into another half-spin, and he steadied himself to turn toward her in surprise. "You didn't move."

"No."

"I did not pull the blow."

"Okay."

"It is _not_ okay," he said, replaying the details in his mind. He looked at his fist as though it held answers. "I saw…I saw.…"

"A puddytat?" she asked.

He stared at her. "Don't _move_." And landed a blow in the center of her face. Pendergast spun, clutching his fist, unsure if he could open it.

The girl took his wrist, wrenched it easily from his grip and gently pried the hand open, caressing it from wrist to tips across the palm. He withdrew from her slowly and examined his hand. It felt fine. He looked back at her face. No red mark, no nothing. Curious, he slapped her as he had earlier, to watch the blush rise. She turned his head with a slap of her own, then watched him touch a hand to his face and return his gaze to hers.

"This…is mere play to you."

She nodded.

"I thought so." He walked away from her toward one of the storage closets.

Proctor clapped his hands together once and rubbed them against each other briskly. "He's going to get weapons."

"I don't care for this," Constance murmured softly.

"I'm starting to think he's right…she won't hurt him."

He brought out nunchaku, considered what he was up against, and decided against them. They'd be a wonderful way to acquire a few bruises on himself. He lifted a long katana, hefted it, and then replaced it in favor of a solid wood practice sword. "This is blunt," he told the girl as he approached her, "but it still hurts when it makes contact."

Pendergast placed his feet just so and took a few swings, whistling the length of wood through his airspace in graceful movements, catching the blunt blade against the flat of his palm before raising a leg and dancing with the faux weapon again. When he began his attack he struck her all about the shoulders, arms, back, throat, legs and head. She never reacted at all. "I feel like you're just trying to wear me out," he grinned, taking a towel to wipe the sweat from his features. "Why don't you attack me?"

"Did he just say…?" asked Proctor, quickly turning the volume on the monitor up.

The woman behind him shook her head slowly side to side, barely able to watch.

The girl walked toward him casually, seized the end of the practice sword and gave it a sharp jerk downward. The wood separated, revealing a gleaming blade. Pendergast stood baffled, stooping to pick up the scabbard she had dropped carelessly at his feet. "When did this become an actual sword?" he asked softly, holding it up to watch light play across the flawless steel. From a few yards away, the girl turned to face him and bowed deeply.

"Oh, no," Proctor intoned.

Pendergast had caught movement from the corner of his eye and affected a stance, uncertain if he was prepared to duel her with an actual deadly weapon in his hands.

The girl stood, her shoulders hunched, and began to raise her arms.

The screen on the monitor went screwy and Proctor groaned, "No! Oh, no!" while trying various means to clear the picture.

Down the nearest hallway Constance ran. Should she grab a weapon? Would it make a difference? Perhaps endanger her more?

"There it goes," the chauffer said, relaxing back in the chair again.

The woman used long, ground-covering strides, her slippers barely touching the floor.

In the gym, the girl charged like a rhino, and Pendergast stared at her, wondering if he should really use the blade on her or not. He decided he would step back at the last second and let her momentum carry her by, slapping her with the flat of the blade to let her know he had tagged her. But there was no stepping back or away. She crashed into him and they went flying, the blade sailing end over end toward a far wall. He braced himself for impact and hoped he had perspired enough to let his skin slide easily across the floor. They landed, bouncing enough to elicit a gruff groan from him, upon the nearest mat. The man stared up at the ceiling, breathless, coughing a little as he tried to re-inflate his lungs. If she intended to do him in, the time was now, while he was still attempting to assess his condition. When he could breathe again, he lifted his head slowly and looked at her, lying atop him, her jaw balanced on the heels of her hands, smiling, pleased with herself.

"Gotcha."

He let his head drop backward. "Yes, Amanda…yes, you did."

"Okay?"

"Perhaps if you help me up, I can better determine my status."

She eased a leg down and pushed up from it, hauling him upright by his waistband. The hapless man hung in her grasp for a moment before centering his feet beneath himself and standing upright on his own. He looked himself over and felt the places that might be hurt, but didn't prove to be. "I seem intact," he told her.

"Again?"

"I no longer question your abilities," he said. "I would like a break, if you don't mind? Would you care for a beverage, perhaps some sort of light snack?"

He bent for a towel, wiped himself down, and then draped it across his shoulders. He wandered toward a slatted bench where he'd set a small tray containing bottled water and drank thoughtfully, reminding himself to take small sips. Her defense was elegant, her attack brutish. The female lacked anything resembling fear. But she was as gentle as a mother playing with her child… He watched her work at something that made a crinkling sound. She breathed normally. No sweat stained her clothing or gleamed on her skin. _She cannot be something of this world_, he thought, vaguely worried by the notion. _And yet…this could be a dream…if perhaps I lay in a coma._

"What is that you have there?" he asked suddenly.

She waved the shiny package at him.

"I'd like to see it, please. Where did it come from?"

"Snack," she said simply as he approached, breaking off a piece of it to pop into her mouth.

"That's…a prepackaged pastry," he accused.

"Cupcake," she agreed, licking chocolate frosting from her fingers.

"Where did you get this?"

"Snack time," she told him.

"Yes, but where? Where did this come from? How did you come by this? This is not something we have here…_ever_."

"Want one?" she asked, displaying a second one atop her other palm.

It looked like something he had seen before, sugar and lard-laden with a faux ganache topping halved by a signature of chained white loops. "I would never," he began then hesitated, contemplating the treat. First he placed the back of one hand against the girl's forehead, her cheek, her throat. Cool as ever. "Do you have more?"

"All you want," she told him, smiling. Dozens of packaged cupcakes fell from her hands to the floor. He had not seen her take them from anywhere.

"Oh, Aloysius!"

They turned to see Constance in one of the doorways, a hand to her heart. "Are you all right?" he called her, hurrying to check on her.

"Are _you_ all right?" she asked.

"I am well as ever," he assured her as he approached. "Is something the matter?"

"I thought…we were…."

Pendergast watched her, waiting for her to form a complete sentence. She looked over at the teenager, then back his way twice. He supplied, "You were watching us on camera?" gesturing toward one of the surveillance cameras set high up near a lighting fixture.

"Yes."

"Is it all being recorded?"

"Yes."

"Excellent," he exhaled. "I shall be very interested in studying the footage later. You're certain you're all right?"

She fanned herself a little with one hand. "I am. If…you are."

"Would you like a cupcake?"

"Would I like a cupcake?" she repeated, cocking her head slightly.

"We have plenty," he told her with a wry grin.

"Where on earth did you find cupcakes?"

Turning a circle with his arms raised, he laughed loudly, "I have no idea!"

"I don't believe you are well," she told him.

"I no longer know what to believe!" he said. "Did you see this?" He jogged over to the wooden practice sword and bent, then stopped in place. Constance watched him puzzle over the object before lifting it slowly. He held it before him, turning it this way and that, then began to tug and pull on the blunt, wooden blade. When it failed to part for him, he lifted a knee and broke the piece in two. Then he peered intently at each splintered end, baffled. Pendergast let the pieces droop to his sides as he looked forlornly about the floor for the concealed blade he'd been holding when the teenager had bowled him over.

"You are obsessed with her," the woman accused.

"Of course I am. She's like nothing I've ever heard of or seen before!"

"She may well be the end of us."

"Us?"

"Us all."

"And we could stop her how?"

"You should have let Vincent take her."

"And endanger his life instead? Or that of other innocent police officers?"

The girl continued eating, ignoring them.

"What do you plan to do with her if no one comes to claim her?" Constance asked.

"Keep her? I know that's not the answer you're seeking, but what else could I do? Turn her over to the military? Watch her fall into the wrong hands?"

Nearing him, the woman asked, "And you suppose your hands are the right ones?"

"I am confident in my thought process," he informed her a little coldly, weary of the circular argument.

"You just broke one of your practice swords."

"I own plenty."

"You thought there was a genuine blade within it."

"You _did_ see that!" he beamed.

"It doesn't…make it real."

"How is any of this not real?" He spread his arms and looked over at Amanda who now stood in a drift of empty cellophane and little white squares of waxed cardboard.

Constance shook her head and asked him, "Where did those cupcakes come from?"

"I believe," he began, swallowing, "they are from Hostess."

"So, she's the Hostess fairy?"

"I don't know!" he said, hurrying after her as she stalked away from him. "Please be patient with me, Constance! I'm trying very desperately to make sense of all of this, but it is taking time." He captured her sleeve and slowed her progress. "It is taking precious time, I know, and perhaps I seem a bit manic and perhaps I may seem a bit mad, but wouldn't you be as well? If you had stumbled upon her within a dream, only to find her in your waking life, strange and, and seemingly magical…in some way still not real?"

"I would seek your advice," she told him, her face flush, eyes wet-looking. "And when I was required to continue with my life in the normal fashion, then I would have her sealed away somewhere securely. It would never dawn on me to risk your well-being, nor anyone else's by allowing her to remain free, to-to have free reign of the house and everything in it!"

"Why don't you go to the Dakota?" he suggested.

She set her jaw, her back to him. "Because…I care about you."

"This," he tried to explain, "may be strange—it may be stranger than anything I have ever encountered before, but I do not believe that you nor I nor anyone else who might become involved is in any way in danger!"

She retorted, "You said you didn't know what to believe." When he failed to reply, she broke her glare and stalked off, slamming a door behind her.

Pendergast stared after her, then allowed his shoulders to sag. He turned, and the teenager was there, directly in his path. He nearly clobbered her with the broken lengths of wood he still held.

"Break over?" she asked.

He looked past her and inhaled deeply. "Do you remember me asking you about an IQ test?"

She nodded after a moment's hesitation.

"Let's retire to the basement, shall we? I'd like to shower first and don something clean. Can you dispose of those…wrappers.…" There was no trace of her feast on the floor. He glanced up at the camera high above them. "That will do."


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

Proctor asked Constance if she would ask Pendergast if he would care for some breakfast. She carried tea downstairs inside a special Chinese cup with a lid on it. When she knocked at the door, it swung open silently. Her benefactor smiled weakly her way, the teen seated in a swivel chair beside him wearing one of his robes. "I've brought you tea."

"You are an angel," he told her, accepting the small tray from her.

"Proctor has prepared breakfast."

"Proctor? Well, he does have a way with an omelet, doesn't he? I shall ascend shortly."

As she prepared to leave, she noticed the teenager's red shirt, black jeans, and suede boots stacked neatly on the edge of the examination table. "Shall I have these cleaned?"

"I haven't finished with them," Pendergast said, waving at her dismissively.

Cocking her head and performing a slight curtsey despite the fact he had already turned away from her, Constance straightened and silently departed the lab.

In the dining room, a little outdoor light was allowed to warm the room through a filter of gauzy curtain liners. The trio sat at the table while the chauffer served them. Little crystal bowls of assorted additions and condiments surrounded a large, fading, dusky lavender colored rose that drooped from a crystal vase. Constance received a small egg-white omelet enfolding a few lightly cooked vegetables with a smear of melted Brie. To Pendergast he served a larger omelet wrapped about asparagus spears, with minced garlic, bacon, and mushrooms, sporting a decorative sprinkle of fish roe along the top. For their guest he presented a two-egg omelet filled with diced bacon and a mild cheddar. Pendergast waited for the man to depart before forking an end of his meal and lifting it for inspection underneath. "I see he still favors the southern French means of preparation."

Constance smiled primly, sampling her eggs before seasoning them lightly and helping herself to a dry toast point.

"Caviar, really?" The pale man took some of his tea and decided to taste the presentation.

Constance glanced toward the girl's empty plate. The silverware beside it appeared spotless, the napkin unused, the plate itself lacking any signs it had been used at all. Disturbed, she watched the girl as she took dainty bites. "You were up all night?"

"I suppose I was. I administered several different IQ tests, and she scores…within the severe to profound range."

"You mean…cognitive impairment?"

"It's difficult to diagnose accurately on one's own. She cannot read, she cannot write, and the simplest mathematical problems are impossible for her. Yet…I spoke to her with a sample of every language I know even a smattering of, and she responded to everything I said correctly as if she was familiar with them all."

"Is she…oh, what do they call them now? A savant?"

"I have never heard of a savant exhibiting superhuman speed, strength, and fighting ability. If anything, she should be slow to move and to recognize and react to immediate threats."

Constance finished her toast and dabbed tiny crumbs from her lower lip. She took a sip of her own tea, then asked, "But if she is programmed for specific tasks…."

"I am unable to prove that she is not flesh, though what flesh she may be is unknown to myself and the Internet. If she is some marvel of genetic engineering, then she has either been damaged, or was never designed to function on her own."

"Then, you suggest she works with a partner or as part of a team?"

"Perhaps." He worked another bit of egg free and ate it. "The flavor of the caviar is masked by the crispy, browned bottom of the omelet…save for the saltiness it imparts." He turned to look at Amanda. "How is…oh, I see. It must have been delicious." He looked back at his ward as she set her fork down atop her empty plate. "I attempted conversation with her, and she perked up at the mention of astronomy."

"Quasar," Constance murmured.

"I had assumed that a project name. She didn't have much knowledge of the subject, but she grew excited when I began to talk about the space program and the Mars Rover expedition."

"Perhaps it's just a fascination."

"Perhaps," he said again.

Finally, she felt emboldened enough to ask, "And what did you learn from her attire?"

"Ah. There is nothing like it anywhere online. No labels, no hemming, no seams…. Even her footwear seemed fashioned from single pieces of…a leather-like substance."

"And did you take upon yourself the opportunity to…examine her further?"

Completing his meal, the agent wiped his hands with his napkin and smiled. "I could not possibly imagine how anything else about her anatomy should suddenly shed light upon this mystery."

The woman smiled, mentioning, "Unless you were to locate her batteries or an off switch."

He chuckled lightly. "If only I had a magnetic resonating imager…."

"Put it on your Christmas list," the woman joked. She turned in her chair to see if Proctor was visible down the hallway. "I can clear these. You are finished, aren't you? Aloysius?"

He sat upright, but his head had lolled forward, his lips slack. As she pondered him with mild alarm, he issued a rough inhalation that might have been a snore had he been lying down. Constance touched his shoulder, shook it slightly. "Aloysius?"

"Hmm? Yes?" He looked toward Amanda and smiled beatifically, his eyes nearly closed again already.

"You need to sleep."

"Not at all. I'm fine! I can go days…."

She shook him again.

"Hmm? What?"

"Go to bed."

"What?"

"You've drifted off twice just sitting here. You need to get some sleep."

He protested, "I shall be fine. I've gone days without sleep before."

"Please," she urged, smiling gently. "I'd hate to ask Proctor to carry you."

"Carry me? Absurd! I shall retire to the sitting room and-"

"Go to bed, Aloysius. Clear your mind, meditate. Perhaps you can determine her origin that way."

He stared at the teen, who only looked back at him blandly. "Well, I don't need sleep… I'm barely tired at all...but I have learned things by-"

"Bed," Constance said in his ear, then patted his shoulder and left with his plate in her hands.

His brow furrowed. "Did I snore?"

Amanda blinked at him. "Little."

"I was _not_ sleeping." He punctuated this announcement with a grand yawn. "Oh…fine. I'll lie down for a few minutes. Will you assist Constance, Amanda? Do as she says? Until you see me again?"

The girl nodded and rose slowly, watching Proctor reappear with a plate of sliced fresh fruits.

"I'm finished," Pendergast told him. "Your efforts are commendable. I will be lying down for…twenty minutes or so. Make certain I do not oversleep."

"Yes, sir."

"And keep your eye on her," he said, getting up and stretching. "Don't let her elude you."

The chauffer watched the girl watch his employer leave the room. "As simple as herding eels," he said softly. Amanda turned to look at him. "Electric eels," he added.

After the dishes and foodstuffs had been cleared away, Constance took Amanda by the hand and led her beneath the house. "Were you born this way?" she asked.

"This way?"

"As you are…with your reflexes, your silent means of perambulation, your difficulty in putting your thoughts into speech."

"Have I always been this way?"

The woman nodded. "If that is the easier question to answer, then do so."

The girl was quiet for some time as they descended into darker, quieter places. "I…don't know."

"You don't recall?"

"I…have dreams," she said slowly, keeping pace with the older woman. "I remember things…bits and pieces…not sure what's real."

And Constance thought that indeed, with Amanda, it was sometimes difficult to ascertain what was actually real. She led her through the darkness, knowing the way by rote, a part of her wishing to frighten the girl a little, to expose some weakness. "Never enter here," she said. "Everything within this room is poisoned. Some of the poisons have only increased in potency with age."

The girl asked, "Like you?"

Constance didn't care for what she'd just heard. "What do you imply?"

"Importancy with age?"

"Importancy is not a word," she said, realizing she had misinterpreted the remark.

"Have you lived here…forever?"

"It seems so at times," she replied. "Can you see well enough? I don't need you tripping over anything in the dark."

"Not so dark," the girl replied, and the woman thought this remark was rather ridiculous. Aloysius had told her of caves he had been in, deep within the womb of the earth where the inner world has its own climate and truly seems like an alien place compared to what humans are accustomed to. There had been moments when he had been utterly without light and he'd explained how the darkness of a cave was unlike any other sense of black, of complete and total deprivation of any form of illumination whatsoever. While the warren of chambers and corridors beneath the mansion were certainly very near cave-like, the woman knew that motionless, she would eventually be able to make out dark shapes against the darkness, though how much she was actually detecting with her eyes and how much she was putting into its proper place through her memories, she did not know. Darker than dark, he had told her. "Even space has _some_ light."

"I shall try and find some fresh clothing for you." She entered a door and turned on the light. The room was small, but seemed larger due to the minimal furnishings. It was the safe room Pendergast had brought his son Tristram to after bringing him to the mansion. The bed had been made afresh and there was a flashlight beside it. "Will you be comfortable here?"

Amanda stepped within the room and gazed at its bleak walls, the rug that did little to perk up the concrete floor. "Okay," she said agreeably.

Constance had expected a different response, but if it truly was good enough for the girl, then why bother with anything better? "You must be exhausted after staying up all night being poked and prodded and barraged with questions."

"Okay," the girl said again, giving a little shrug. She headed for the bed, doffing the robe as she neared it. It hit the floor and she crawled pale, frail, and cold between the chilly sheets, drawing the thin yet adequate blankets up to her shoulders.

Her lack of modesty had caught the other woman by surprise. She cleared her throat and mentioned, "There is a restroom down here…have you…Amanda…have you used the restroom yet?"

"For what?"

"For…any purpose whatsoever?"

She wrinkled her brow. "No."

"Do you require…a carafe of water perhaps, or…would you care for some stewed prunes before you go to sleep?"

"'mokay."

"You need to learn to speak clearly. You need not speak loudly, but if you would practice comp-lete sentences and learn to project a little…. Well, perhaps there may be time for that later."

"'night," said the girl, closing her eyes.

"Are you warm enough?"

"'mokay."

"There is a flashlight beside the bed. Please call to us before you attempt to return upstairs alone. I would hate for you to wander into an area full of…surprises."

"'night," the girl repeated, rolling onto her side so that her back was to the door.

"Good night, then," Constance said, hitting the lights and closing the door quietly, then standing outside of it for some time. Eventually, she decided to go with her initial idea and locked the door before departing.


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

"That was embarrassing," Proctor said softly, standing in the sitting room, staring at the bookshelf he'd been tossed against.

Constance stood at his side, equally bewildered, but adamant not to show it. "There is a reasonable explanation, of course."

"I _know_ she threw me against those shelves. I know I stacked the fallen books on the floor there and there last night before turning in."

"She…is able to manipulate our minds."

"She's dumb as a doornail," he blurted, then apologized for his language.

"I do not believe she is as unaware as Aloysius thinks. If anything, I believe her to be somewhat canny. Her flaw is being unable to articulate herself in any normal manner, but I believe she comprehends extremely well."

He swung an arm toward the bookcase. "So…this was what, hypnosis?"

"Some form," she admitted thoughtfully. "Obviously you did not damage the shelving nor disturb any books, and there exists the possibility that you were never actually thrown that far at all."

"Oh, I remember it," he said, reaching back to press a hand over one of his kidneys.

"Are you bruised?"

He said, "Not a bit. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for quite some time, and there is not a mark on me, and not a bit of me aches." He saw the reaction in her eyes. "But I distinctly remember what it felt like…the pain."

She said, "When I encountered them in the gym, Aloysius attempted to break open a solid wood practice sword in order to prove that there was a blade within it."

"I saw it all. It's recorded," he said.

"But there was no blade. It was solid wood as it had been all along."

"Okay. You might be able to hypnotize a bunch of people without their knowing it and make them believe whatever you want them to, but how do you explain the footage? Why do I still see the gleam of a blade? I easily saw her pull that practice sword into two pieces and discard half like it was a scabbard. I can _still_ see it if I play it back!"

"Because whatever tricks she used remain in place. Whether it is movement, sound, there is some trigger that allows her to fool us, and it was recorded as well."

He inhaled deeply, his eyebrows rising, and then he shook his head. "Then we go back to considering her potentially dangerous again."

"I never stopped," she said.

"The phone rang earlier," he mentioned. "The doctor says Tristram can come home."

"They are releasing him? Aloysius will want to pick him up himself."

The man looked at his watch. "He's been out six hours. That's more than he usually sleeps."

"I'm certain he is well-rested," she agreed. "I shall summon him."

The woman left the sitting room, her mind still turning over the notion that Amanda was able to somehow force hallucinations upon them all. There was her strangely tingly touch…which of course would not transmit over a digital surveillance feed. She climbed the stairs quietly, perturbed. Who would train or create a weapon in the form of a teenaged girl? Was she meant to infiltrate schools or shopping malls or wherever it was that children her age tended to gather these days? She'd stand out at a military base, or any other place inhabited almost entirely by grown adults. What could her true purpose be? His door was ajar, which was odd. Constance tapped very lightly as she pushed the door farther open before allowing herself a quick peek within. Aloysius was out cold, appearing to have fallen onto the mattress face-first but with his head turned toward her, mouth agape, still in the suit he had donned after his martial arts experiments as though he could not function in any other uniform. She couldn't help but smile. It was exceedingly rare to catch him in moments of such honest and innocent disarray. He reminded her of a cat in that should he discover himself even mildly compromised, it was his tendency to repair his reputation immediately and behave as though the unfortunate moment had never occurred.

Then he shifted and, to her grand dismay, she clearly saw that he was not alone.

Constance moved with utmost grace and silence closer to the bed. Pressed up against his side lay the teenager she had locked in the basement. Fortunately, she appeared to have drawn her borrowed robe back on, although it did little to conceal the fact she was nude beneath it. Horrified, the woman remained in place, her eyes huge. The lean, pale man breathed slowly and evenly, his head turned away from his guest. The teen appeared to have snuggled up against him for warmth and was not spooning his side at least.

But it was so unsettling!

Shielding her eyes, she hurried from the room and pulled the door over, deciding it needed to latch shut. Then she stood just outside, her forehead almost in contact with the wood, her heart beating rapidly, the hallways seeming cold. Finally looking up, Constance took a deep breath and blinked. Hesitating for only a moment, she lifted a fist and gave the door a single sharp rap, then waited.

There was a sound of movement followed by a sharp syllable of unpleasant surprise. The corners of her mouth turned upward ever so little with pleasure. She heard a question, a faint response, and then she knocked softly, but firmly, twice and asked, "Aloysius? Are you presentable?"

"_Presentable?"_ she heard from within the room, the word spoken as thought it had tasted foul. "Have I visitors?"

"Proctor took a call for you. The doctor says you may pick Tristram up and bring him home."

"_Patience,"_ she heard him spit, followed by the sound of heavy footfalls. The door popped open abruptly and the teenager was propelled across the threshold by one shoulder. "Take this and entertain her or something! Find her some clothes!" He slammed the door, and the woman smiled primly, her eyes glittering with merriment.

"Come with me, Amanda. I may have something that will fit you." And with that, Constance led the plucky girl farther down the hall.

Pendergast failed to comment on his guest's appearance when he finally appeared, clean-shaven, hair neatly in place, attire pristine. "Twenty minutes?" he asked Proctor, who was readying one of the automobiles. "I will not be gone long," he said. "Please prepare a room for her and try and keep her in it for me?"

Constance had hoped for a compliment on the job she had done dressing the girl and drawing her luxuriant black hair back in a broad, pale ribbon. Actually, she was still baffled by the fact that they were not the same size, and yet everything she had given her to don fit as though made for her—including the shoes.

He bent to address Amanda, "I need you to remain here until my return and to follow every command Constance gives, is that clear?"

The teen nodded.

The woman asked, "Do you think it's safe to bring him here? Now?"

He sighed. "Tristram will have to grow accustomed to our lifestyle. The reason I allowed the doctor to keep him for so long for observation was to help him understand that I, personally, will not always be about when he needs me, but I will ensure that someone trustworthy will be. He needs to learn discipline and the nature of my work."

She cast her eyes Amanda's way and mentioned, "This seems a bit above and beyond anything reasonable, don't you think?"

His eyes narrowed tiredly. "While always welcome, reason does not always play into every scenario…at least, not where my life has been concerned."

She offered a brave smile.

Pendergast paused to gaze into the depths of her large brown eyes, then lightly touched the curve of her jaw with a forefinger before departing.

Constance glanced toward her charge, wondering if the girl would be jealous, but she appeared consumed with boredom, which somehow made her all the more appealing in the sporty little outfit she wore; an eggshell blouse with three-quarter sleeves and a square-cut neck, a high-waisted coffee with cream skirt that fell just past her kneecaps, pale stockings, and simple flats that matched the color of the skirt. She looked a lot like any high-faluting schoolgirl, primped and preened and ready for a road trip with her family…if she existed with them sometime around 1910.

They watched the door close, and then Constance turned with a small sigh. "Would you care to play a game? I know several card games, backgammon, checkers and chess…?" she trailed off, suddenly wondering if the suggestion of chess had been heartless of her considering their guest's mental state.

Amanda stared at the door, looking displeased. Eventually she sighed. "TV?"

"We do not have a television in the house, but there is always music and a radio in the kitchen."

"Video games?"

The woman smiled and shook her head. "I could set up a badminton net in the gym, or perhaps we could play a version of croquet indoors?"

Amanda's face displayed her confusion. "Don't know these…big words."

"Would you like to learn?"

She shrugged.

"Now, what have we told you about that?"

"Sorry."

"I _am _sorry," Constance corrected her gently.

"'sokay," the girl replied, offering her a sympathetic grin.


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

Tristram was the newest official member of the household, lean and pale with eyes that were both trusting and uncertain. Shortly after he'd begun to settle in to New York City mansion life, he had begun to exhibit some rather mild symptoms of upset such an unsettled tummy, headaches, and an occasional bout of sniffles. Pendergast had thought it stress-related, for while the lad understood that he would live a better life, a safer life under his father's care, it was not unexpected that he should have a few issues getting used to his new environment and way of life. When he developed an unfortunate habit of picking at his nails and scratching at his skin until he'd manufactured scabs with which to entertain himself, Pendergast contacted one of the very few physicians he was familiar enough to have developed some personal trust of and asked if his son could receive a complete exam and check-up. After relating the boy's symptoms, the doctor had suggested keeping him for observation and administering a series of allergy tests on him. The agent had agreed and sat down to have a long talk with his son, reassuring him that all would be well, and letting him know that he could contact his father or any of the household staff at any time of the day or night if he felt the least bit uncomfortable or afraid. Somewhat used to people in lab coats questioning him and administering tests, he had resigned himself to the procedure, though he was visibly ill at ease. Pendergast had called him a brave fellow and lingered with him for several hours, calling after he had departed to make certain the boy was adjusting well. The doctor had assured him that while Tristram had initially been a bit down over his temporary abandonment, he had cooperated willingly in every respect and was off the get-go a model patient.

"May I ask what your conclusions are regarding the visitor, sir?"

"You may," the pale man replied, seated with his legs crossed, his chin in the cup of one palm as he sightlessly watched the city flow by. "I believe she is very real and alive, as much as you or I, but she has been enhanced via some artificial means for a rather precise purpose I have not yet discerned."

The chauffer inhaled deeply, thinking, _she's real and alive. That's about all I've figured out about_ _her, too, but I certainly haven't lost sleep over it._ Then again, his employer _was_ the obsessive type.

"I would like you to contact someone regarding the damage in the sitting room. It should be restored immediately."

"Already done, sir," Proctor responded. "It has occurred to you, I suppose, that everything we think we've seen or experienced from this girl may in fact be nothing more than some elaborate illusion? Some kind of mass hypnosis?"

"I have entertained the possibility," came the tired-sounding reply. It was rare that any sort of mystery ever stumped the man, and he was undoubtedly mentally weary and frustrated.

Proctor drew the long car up before the covered entrance and waited for Pendergast to exit, turning quickly around when he swore he saw something quickly follow the man out. _"Sir?" _he called in alarm.

Pendergast was smoothing his jacket down, but turned and startled, his features growing sharper with his anger. "How did you get here?" he asked, laying both hands upon the girl's shoulders.

"With you," she said, as though he'd forgotten that he'd shared the back seat.

"I assure you that is not true, young lady!"

She spoke calmly, "You tell me."

"That is not amusing."

"I never saw her!" Proctor said, leaning toward the still open door to be heard.

"I _know_ we left her at the house!"

Proctor added, "Just like Constance locking her in that room in the basement-"

"What?"

The man saw his employer's eyes narrow and decided he probably should not have mentioned that bit. "When you turned in this morning, when you went to bed…Constance felt it would be safer—for everyone—if Amanda was allowed to stay in the room in the basement where Tristram was initially kept."

"Did she?" the silvery-eyed man asked, a touch of cruel amusement vaguely coloring his cheeks. "This I did not know."

Amanda remained in place beside him, watching him carefully, doing and saying nothing.

"Forgive me," he told her, bowing slightly. He offered his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her back into the rear of the car. "I suppose we have not been the most gracious hosts, but I will attempt to remedy the situation once we have returned home." He addressed Proctor, "Park and await me. I promise I will not be long."

The chauffer watched his employer shut the car door. He waved, wearing a false grin, as they rode off. "I never saw you get in the car," he said, turning the steering wheel and maneuvering through rows of parked automobiles. "How did you do that?" He glanced in the rear-view mirror when no answer was forthcoming. Then he unbuckled his seat belt and pushed himself up and backward, torquing his body around for a good look in the empty rear of the car. He resumed his normal posture and caught sight of the teen slipping through the automatic doors and into the large, public building. "Oh, no," he exhaled, then opened the driver's door and ran after her.

Pendergast knew what floor Tristram had been kept on and where the elevators were. He rode up alone as luck would have it, exited, and made his way to the ward where his son should be. He was greeted by a nurse and asked how she could help him. He explained why he was there and was smiled at and asked to take a seat within a small side room. He preferred to linger along a nearby wall, out of the way, but looking alarmingly like an undertaker in his fitted black suit and well-appointed, conservative style. "Please, Mr. Pendergast," the woman insisted, gesturing toward the small room lined with windows. "You might be in the way there if an emergency came up. I promise you the doctor will be here to meet you soon."

Reluctantly he approached the door and frowned at the metal handle before touching it. There were hand-sanitizing pumps mounted nearly everywhere, but the room within smelled a bit sour, stale, with a cloying attempt at cover-up by a synthetic fruit-scented air freshener badly hidden within a basket of artificial flowers. There was no one else in the room, but a small television insisted he pay attention to a drab talk show, and there was an actual coffee pot set on a small table with greasy-looking liquid in it and offerings of sugar in paper pillow packets, powdered creamer in an open canister, and Polystyrene cups stacked for his convenience. He chose not to touch any of it, but sat with his hands over his knees, posture perfect, eyes closed as he began a light meditation.

The sounds of the hospital began to fade, but he chose not to eliminate them entirely. It required splitting his attention to remain alert to his surroundings while exploring his own imagination, and he fell into the means easily. Out of all of the noises his ears could pick up, it was the soft, dull music emanating from the corridor beyond the glassed-in room that filtered through. He matched his breathing to the simple beat, then his heartbeat, feeling his body cool, losing the sense of weight and warmth, the feel of the fabric surrounding him, the solidness of the chair and floor beneath him.

He crested a grassy knoll and released the telescope from beneath his arm, extending the legs of the tripod and adjusting it to stand straight on the uneven ground. Then he uncapped the wide end of the optic and withdrew from a pants pocket one of three lenses he could use to vary the magnification. He checked his watch and verified its accuracy by the swath of Milky Way that beribboned the night sky. Out in the country the sky was blacker, and thus the heavenly bodies appeared fantastically more numerous and far, far brighter. To the east he watched the lights of a commercial jet as it descended. To the southwest a tiny gold glow moved surely across the sky. He stared upward, lost in the magnificence of space until constellations picked themselves out and made themselves known, orienting him. He attached the lens to the small end of the telescope and screwed it into place. Then he bent enough for a good view and began to adjust knobs, moving the device slowly and surely, seeking something he knew was out there, but had never actually seen before.

A quasar.

He heard the door open and lifted his head from the viewfinder.

"Hello, Aloysius," Dr. Fassbender said in his soft baritone, grinning and extending a cold hand. Choosing a seat, he perched on the edge of it and readied a clipboard over his knees. "Tristram is an interesting boy."

"I would imagine."

"You might consider therapeutic counseling for him, to help him adjust to his new routine."

"I shall take that into consideration."

"Great. Well, we ran a barrage of tests on him, and he's quite the trooper, by the way. Quiet, cooperative, but reticent."

"In what way?"

"Communication-wise," the man said frankly. "I think it's more than simple shyness. Other children might consider him a little slow, but he's actually a pretty bright boy."

"I see. Thank you."

Fassbender consulted paperwork attached to the clipboard. "He has allergies, but nothing serious. As a matter of fact, I'd be surprised if he doesn't end up outgrowing most of them. Here's a list," he said, stretching to hand Pendergast the data.

Pale eyes quickly scanned the information. "Dogwood trees, Brazil nuts, rodent hair and droppings, wool... Oh dear, really? Wool?"

"Blankets more so than suits," the doctor admitted. "Itching," he said.

"I see. Dogs, peas…only peas? Not other legumes?"

"None of them is serious," Fassbender said. "He's just a little overwhelmed in a change of climate and diet. Diarrhea here and there, sinus headaches, mild itchy rashes…but all of it mild."

"And the scabs along his arms?"

"He just needs to be kept pre-occupied. I gather he didn't receive a great deal of mental stimulus where he was before, aside from stress. You could get him into puzzles or games or even books if he'll read them."

"I am certain he shall," Pendergast replied with a faint smile. "Does he require medication?"

Fassbender handed him another sheet. "I'll get the actual prescriptions written up for you. All of these can be taken on an as-needed basis. In fact, some of these you can substitute with over-the-counter meds after he's finished taking these. In general, he's a healthy boy. He could use some sunshine and horseplay, though."

"Thank you," Pendergast said. "May I take him home now?"

"Certainly." The doctor glanced at his watch, then behind himself through the windows that overlooked the nurse's station. "He should be here at any moment. Why don't you two meet me at the counter and I'll grab those prescriptions for you."

"Two?" Pendergast turned to make certain he was alone in the room, and smoldered to see Amanda seated quietly beside him, looking attentive.

"You're not together?" Fassbender asked, rising.

"I'm afraid we are," the agent said through clenched teeth. He waited for the other man to depart, and once the door had closed to his satisfaction, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and for a moment said absolutely nothing. When he looked again, she was still there, watching him. He mentioned hoarsely as he pushed himself to his feet, "You look ridiculous in that outfit."

He was smoothing his jacket as he approached the nurse's station, looking a bit haggard, moving slowly. The girl brought on sensations of surreality every time she exhibited some superhuman feat. _This is far too real to be a dream_, he told himself, tugging his tie straight and making sure it lay flat. If he had no control of the situation, then at least he could maintain it over himself. Ignoring her, he moved close to the counter and softly cleared his throat.

"Hello," the overweight woman greeted. She was not the same person he had seen when he had first arrived, but there always seemed to be someone stepping onto or from the elevator, grabbing a wheelchair, dropping off paperwork, carrying items into the various rooms beyond the counter. "You're the Pendergast daddy?"

Her wording sounded almost vulgar. "Indeed, I am," he answered in his soft, calming tones.

"Ooh, what an accent! You're from New Orleans or thereabouts, ain'tcha, baby?"

"I am," he replied without warming to her.

She sensed his somber mood and toned her own down accordingly. "Oh, yes," she said, consulting some papers from the cluttered surface before her, "Well, you're a bit early, but you're welcome to wait. We have a nice little coffee shop-"

"Excuse me," he said, "but I was told by Dr. Fassbender that he would be ready for travel. His name is _Tristram _Pendergast…."

He noticed the slight stiffening of her posture and the artificial aspects of her smile as she decided he was of the more difficult persuasion. _Probably some rich snob_, she thought, rechecking the papers before her. "Yes, it says here he was signed out only ten minutes ago-"

"He left with someone? He was discharged?"

"No, sir. Someone signed him out to go get an MRI done." She held up the appropriate clipboard with the illegible information scribbled across one of the available lines.

"He was being discharged. He did not require an MRI. Who is this person who signed him out?"

Fassbender wandered up with a wheelchair. "Forgive me, had to stop in and say hi to one of my-"

"Tristram has been taken, allegedly to have an MRI," Pendergast stated.

The doctor's face turned red and his demeanor gruff as he snapped at the nurse, "By whose order?"

She showed him the clipboard.

"Whose signature is this? I can't read any of this! Mr. Pender-" he said, turning, but the tall, pale man in the black suit was gone.

He had swiftly ducked into the first elevator that had opened to discharge passengers, and mashed the ground floor button. To his chagrin, the car began to ascend. "No!" he gasped.

A pale arm reached past him from the corner and hit the button marked G again. The car came to an immediate halt and started to drop at stomach lurching speed. If Amanda hadn't been standing just behind him, smiling, he would have thought the car was free-falling and he would soon meet his maker. The doors parted, and Pendergast lurched forward unsteadily, his body still insisting they were dropping despite the fact they had already reached ground level. He took a good look around, then headed for the main information desk.

"I found you!"

He turned, recognizing the voice.

"Two guys wheeled him out and crammed him into an older-model sedan!" Proctor said breathlessly, his eyes settling for a moment on the tricky teenager. "We can catch them!"

The three hurried out into the parking lot, mindful of traffic. They piled into the car and were off with a squeal of tires before the rear doors had even completely shut.

"There was at least one other fellow driving. It was an old Mercedes-Benz. I saw which way they went before I went to find you."

He cut off motorists as he roared into traffic, and Pendergast calmly checked his handgun, ignoring the girl.

Proctor was an excellent driver. Not only did he follow every rule of the road scrupulously and behave in a considerate manner behind the wheel, but he had also completed extensive training of the sort used by the President's Secret Service agents. His passengers sat tight as he dodged and weaved with maximum efficiency, taking a slight scrape from a taxi that refused to yield to his aggression. Pendergast caught sight of the vehicle he was pursuing shortly after Proctor had decided he was certain it was it. The long, regal vehicle caught the curb at an angle between parked cars and rode up on the sidewalk, bypassing nearly an entire block of congestion before they abruptly entered an intersection to a barrage of startled horns. Proctor shook his head and clucked, flooring it. The black Mercedes was maybe three cars away.

An ambulance caught them at the next intersection, nearly T-boning them as they attempted to make the yellow light. Proctor nearly collided with traffic oncoming from the right, and then was challenged for the right to proceed by the ambulance driver. He threw the car into reverse, yielding only long enough for the emergency vehicle to clear his path, and then squealed forward, nearly colliding with traffic oncoming from the left. Someone in an H2 lowered his window to offer a hand signal, but Proctor wasn't driving _up_. He zipped around the pretentious beast and raced along nearly empty lanes until a brown sedan pulled away from the curb to his right, forcing him to drift into the left lane. The next light was red and there was no way to dodge the flow of cars before them.

"Do you still see them?" Pendergast asked, leaning forward.

"They're still ahead of us, sir."

"Were you able to get a license plate number or-"

Horns blared and tires squealed as the light changed again, catching unawares vehicles in the intersection. It changed again and the cars cleared. Two tried to run the next red that brightened seconds after the green had extinguished, with no yellow light between them. "We can run parallel to them," Proctor suggested, yanking the wheel hard to the right and driving through the all-red intersection.

He had to bypass a one-way street heading in the opposite direction before he came to the turn he needed. A line of cars sat in the left lane, waiting for the light. To their surprise every driver began to jerk their vehicles left or right until a jagged gap opened up. They sat still long enough to ascertain that no emergency vehicle was approaching, and then moved into the gap as gently, but quickly as possible, seeing it lead all the way to the intersection, which again was all red-lights. Proctor nearly closed the door of a man attempting to exit his Rav-4, and Pendergast noticed that many of the drivers who had pulled hard to the sides were exiting their cars, looking angry or puzzled.

He tried looking out every window he could, craning his neck to see the sky, sniffing for the scent of fire or chemical fumes or natural gas. He was nearly tumbled as Proctor sped through the turn and found another block's worth of empty lane before him. "Something weird's happening," he murmured as they flew past buildings and parked cars.

Pendergast refused to gauge Amanda's reaction. There was no way she could be a part of this…. Not at this level….

He allowed himself one surreptitious peek her way. She was seated comfortably, leaning forward, staring keenly ahead through the windshield.

_Unless this is a dream_, he thought, wincing.

Again and again they zoomed unimpeded down empty lanes, any cars ahead swerving into the right lane to avoid them or making right turns. Then the black car they were seeking cut through a congested intersection. Proctor spun the wheel to follow, but someone in a delivery truck had decided that if the Mercedes was going to run the red light, so could he. The impact skidded the car sideways. They bounced off a streetlight, ran over the curb, and kept going.

"I think they're heading for the bridge," Proctor said.

"That would be my guess, too."

"Traffic should slow them."

The driver of the Mercedes realized they had a tail. Pendergast wondered if they were familiar with the car. It jumped forward, swerving around vehicles that seemed to be returning to their normal patterns, losing the gap. There was a gasp and Aloysius saw Amanda with her face pressed to the nearest window, staring out at their surroundings. He thought he saw her reach through the window and pulled her back, leaning across her to raise it again…but it was closed. He turned to stare at her. Her eyes were wet, a blush of sadness ringing them and making the end of her nose rosy, the delicate line of her lips a blur. "Have you been injured?" he asked her incredulously.

"This bridge," she said, her voice clearly thick and hoarse. "The way home."

"You live in New Jersey?"

She shook her head. "ArtReal."

"Artreal, New Jersey?"

"No," she said, frustrated, shaking her head again.

"We can discuss it later," he said, patting her hand before sitting upright again and watching their progress. Despite the urgency of the moment, his own turmoil, an absurd thought came to him: _Art thou real? _He shook his head and pointed out an opening gap in traffic to his driver.

"They have a good lead," the chauffer grumbled, doing his best.

The vehicle directly ahead of them veered sharply right, causing a squeal of protesting tires, horns, and the sound of metal crumpling. The next one did the same, and the next one until the drivers ahead, seeming to sense something out of the ordinary was taking place tried to drive faster, soon losing to a new congested clump.

Beside him, the teen leaned far forward, her bottom barely in contact with the seat any longer and swatted as if she was pushing each car ahead of them aside. Pendergast, having difficulty believing his senses, leaned in close to her to try and see from her point of view. Sure enough, every vehicle she issued a shoving motion toward instantaneously swerved left or right. He licked his lips and suggested, "Go faster, Proctor."

"What? Faster? But there's something strange-"

"Floor it!" his employer insisted, raising his voice enough to give his order a significant weight.

"Yes, sir." The silver-grey Rolls roared forward, and Amanda's hand movements became faster. "There it is!"

The Mercedes had switched over to the far right and was wobbling as the tires rolled against the curbstone. The horn blared and it finally jumped onto the concrete, attempting to bypass traffic on the right.

Pendergast lowered the window and took careful aim as Proctor maintained a cautious distance between them. The car jerked left, striking a minivan as it tried to rejoin the flow. The agent had intended to take out a tire. It was possible, though he thought it unlikely, that catching up to his son's abductors might possibly put his son in more danger. He had made the mistake of believing his wife's kidnappers would not shoot her, and then he'd had to bury her in the desert where she'd fallen. _I cannot allow the past to cloud the future_, he told himself. _It cannot become my weakness._

Ahead of them the Mercedes veered left, glanced off a Buick, fought to keep control, went sideways, then flipped, going airborne.

Several things seemed to happen very quickly. Cars squealed to a stop and others plowed into them. Pendergast threw his arms back to launch himself forward so he could exit the vehicle while Proctor nearly spun the car in an effort to stop it before it joined the pileup. Head swiveling to follow the action, he watched the Mercedes bounce off the roof of a limousine, then get spun by a tour bus braking hard. The car sailed toward the far edge, none of the support cables there to halt or deflect its trajectory. He grabbed the door handle and had it open, his feet landing lightly as his own car continued to slide away from him. He sprinted, feeling a sharp pain through an ankle as he began his run at a bad angle. He did not see the hatchback that almost threw him after the black car. Was unaware of the motorcycle that wobbled badly and finally lay down, sliding toward the Silver Wraith. He ran, and the world around him seemed silent, only the sound of wind whistling past his ears as he gained speed. His heart raced, his chest worked hard as his arms and legs pumped. The Mercedes caught the far edge of the railing and flipped along another axis before slowly—so it seemed to him—it sank with strange grace beyond his line of sight.

Proctor exited the vehicle to check on the frightened motorcyclist. He saw the Mercedes vanish and glanced quickly toward the rear of the Wraith. Then he paused in a half crouch and squinted, unsure of what he was seeing while the young man at his feet kept repeating, "I'm all right, I'm all right," as he tugged his helmet off. The chauffer looked back toward the lean man in black, straightened in horror and bellowed after him.

To no avail.

_If this is a dream_, Pendergast thought, attaining the rail and launching his hips sideways to vault it, _then I will likely wake before hitting. And if it is not…then I join my family._

Depending on the tide, it was a drop of approximately 212 feet from the George Washington Bridge. Over the years it had gained popularity as a suicide spot, and a rare few had managed to survive the fall. Even if none had managed to live the attempt, he was confident that he stood an excellent chance of surviving. Not a fool by any means, Aloysius Xindu Leng Pendergast was not above sacrificing himself if it was for the better good. Physically fit, with the skills of a gymnast and martial artist combined, formerly enrolled in the U.S. Special Forces, proven to be the cream of the elite of both mind and body, and perhaps—though he would never admit to such a thing—with a smidgen of luck thrown in, he had endured his share of hospital stays, but never allowed fear to dictate his actions.

He aligned his body, pushed his arms straight before himself, told himself that he'd need to time his breathing just so. He calculated the speed at which he would hit the water and tucked his chin to his chest. He counted heartbeats and remembered the strange room with the humpback whales gliding past in indigo silhouette. He could smell the water. It would likely be cold. He heard the lapping of choppy waves echo against the base of the bridge and knew he was seconds from impact. Eyes closed, he drew a last, deep breath.

The lighting changed. He told himself to stay still, but to arch his back so he would glide up toward the surface. His hair tickled his forehead. He hadn't felt the impact. He thought he could still hear the thrum of traffic on the bridge's second level. He would have to open his eyes. The bridge was coming right at him. He spasmed in a fit of coughing and struggled, to find himself held fast. Something had him! And…they were steadily rising….

Gasping, he managed to twist enough for a look at the topaz blue eyes of Amanda. She offered him a smile. Her hair whipped past and around their bodies, the absurd ribbon gone. He looked down, freed an arm and saw he was caught in her embrace. He looked up, but there was no cable, no crane, no nothing. There was absolutely nothing suspending the two of them in mid-air.

They cleared the outer railing and she set him gingerly upon his feet before alighting beside him. Actually woozy, he staggered, and she held him upright. Her touch was calming and he remained with her a moment until someone called, "Hey! You guys all right?"

He looked toward a stranger who had just exited his car. Pendergast swallowed and nodded, gently pushing the teenager away.

"Do you know what's goin' on?" the guy asked. "Some kinda crazy accident or somethin'?"

Pendergast said, "Yes indeed. Some kind of…crazy accident."

A car full of elderly women was parked beside the cigar-chomping guy and he caught their gazes as he walked toward the commotion some yards away. Every one of them was pale and staring. There had been witnesses. This notion actually made him feel better.

He caught up to the girl and linked an arm in hers. Leaning toward her, he mentioned, "Of course you fly."

She shrugged.

They passed a small car with a surfboard strapped to the top of it, and every college-aged passenger was busy attempting to record them as they walked by.

"I believe you are about to become famous, my dear." The girl said nothing. He walked back toward the railing and looked over it, catching sight of what might be debris from the Mercedes. Jumping back in to find out what had happened to Tristram would likely end in his second rescue by the superhuman teenager. His heart seemed to beat wildly against his ribcage as pressure began to creep up his throat, making it difficult to swallow. He heard sirens and ignored them. Amanda stood beside him and snaked a hand over his arm, taking hold of his wrist and exerting firm pressure. "You…don't understand," he said softly, and didn't know if she heard his words or if they were lost to the wind.

The girl slowly, deliberately removed his hand from the railing and began to escort him back toward the car. He held onto the metal railing with his other hand in a death-grip, but she managed to pull him free of it as though it had been greased with butter. He resisted her pace, and she placed an arm around his waist, manhandling him in such a subtle manner that no one watching would realize he was only moving forward because of her irresistible strength.

Ahead of them Proctor waved, his movements growing wilder when he was certain that he had their attention. He walked toward the rear of the damaged grey vehicle and took hold of a wrist, drawing it out until the person it was attached to was identifiable.

Pendergast gasped and broke into a run.

Father dropped to his knees and embraced son, who placed his arms about his shoulders lightly, looking ashen and confused. His eyes caught sight of the girl who had appeared out of nowhere inside of the speeding black Mercedes. The driver, startled, had wrenched the steering wheel to one side and blurted a syllable as she had leaned into him, her hands about his throat. His legs had stiffened, mashing the accelerator to the floorboard. Tristram's world had become one of loud noise and concussive forces before it had literally been turned upside down. One of the men in the back had lunged forward to grab the stranger, his arms swinging right through her like she was nothing but a holographic projection. The other had attempted to fight G-forces and force his way toward the steering wheel, catching a squirt of blood to the face as the girl's fingers met each other through pulpy flesh. The loose head had bobbed about obscenely. The man on the boy's right was thrown into the front seat where he screamed and grabbed uselessly at a figure that was somehow not really there. The one trying to wipe blood out of his eyes was thrown about the inside of the topsy-turvy vehicle until a blow to the head knocked him cold. Miraculously, neither of the men had managed to touch him in the confusion. Smiling pleasantly, the teenaged girl had turned and reached back to adjust Tristram's seatbelt. While he feared her, he'd also felt strangely calm as the upside-down car had seemed to linger for a moment on the outer rail of the bridge before easing down over the side. He found himself fascinated by the fact that her hair remained perfectly in place instead of flying about her like a nest of serpents, and when he looked down at her hands as they took hold of the buckle he saw that they were clean, without any blood or gore upon them. "Stay," she'd said, still smiling at him as she'd sat up and looked out the open door of the car to where a lean figure in black was hurtling himself toward certain death. Proctor's astonished face was squinting her way, and then his jaw had dropped. She heard him call out as she rocketed from the back of the Wraith and for the span of a second or two actually seemed to vanish, reappearing on her way down toward a pair of shoe soles and catching up fast.

Not a man to allow himself to become emotional in public unless he wished to share a little contempt with someone in particular, Pendergast stood and held his son close, his hand sliding through the soft, flyaway hair. One might think he wept silently, but the chauffer and the mysterious stranger could see that he was merely immersed in the moment. Amanda turned away. People had left their vehicles to talk animatedly or yell at each other or text or try and explain what had happened into their cell phones. There was so much congestion that the police had to leave their own cars and approach on foot while ambulances and fire trucks slowly crept through the confusion. The girl walked slowly toward the edge of the bridge until she could see the area she thought she was familiar with. While she was unable to make out specific landmarks that she'd recognize, she was certain that the squat, grey building that should have been located not far from the banks of the Hudson was absent. This pained her and she turned to look back at her new friends. Pendergast was watching her, a look of gratitude and wonder on his features. Proctor cocked an eyebrow her way, then beckoned her back. She took a last look out over the water, closing her eyes as the breeze lifted her waist-length black hair and let it flow in mesmerizing waves behind her. Eventually she turned and picked her way back to the silver-grey automobile.


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

"Your name came up again," D'Agosta said from the doorway, smiling crookedly.

"Do come in," Pendergast told him, stepping aside to allow the larger man to enter his abode.

"You left the scene of an accident."

"I gave the police officer who approached me my contact information, then departed, yes."

The police officer trailed his friend deeper into the mansion suspiciously, one hand unconsciously rubbing at his chest. "Where's the kid?"

"Amanda is directly behind you."

D'Agosta jumped, turning. "Don't get too close, kid."

She walked past him as though he'd been in her way, reaching the front parlor before them.

"Would you care for some refreshment?"

"I'd love a beer."

Pendergast knew his friend was being facetious. He offered a choice of seats to his guest, then took his own. The teenager sprawled comfortably across the loveseat beside him, as collected as a cat. D'Agosta grabbed a chair that was surprisingly heavy for its looks and dragged it nearer to Pendergast and the small, delicate coffee table before him.

"Okay," he said, consulting the view screen on his new phone, "let's see where this all begins."

"I went to pick Tristram up from the hospital."

"How is he, by the way? Okay? No cuts, no scrapes, no bruises?"

"He is taking a nap."

"I see. So…you were headed to Jersey…for a lovely drive in the country?"

"I had business to attend to."

"With your son?"

"He played a part in it."

The cop knew the FBI agent was intentionally being evasive. He honestly didn't care what Pendergast had been up to, and really hoped not to get involved any more than he already was. "And the girl?" he jerked a thumb toward the unusually quiet, passive teen.

"Yes."

"…and…Proctor was a witness, too?"

"I'm afraid so."

D'Agosta grinned. "I bet you are. So you're heading toward the GWB, and traffic is literally crazy."

"It was impossible to say exactly what had gotten into everybody," the pale man said. "One might say it was like a madhouse. Signals were malfunctioning, people were driving erratically, causing accidents."

"All along the exact route you happened to take from the hospital. And yet _you_ never got in any accidents."

"The car is being washed and waxed by Proctor. You are welcome to examine it."

"Not like you have two of the same car and switched plates on it or anything?"

"I have no issue with you checking to see what specific vehicles I have registered," Pendergast responded.

"Of course not. I only mention it because…." he trailed off, startled by the sight of a tall pilsner glass dripping foam onto a coaster in front of him. He hadn't seen or heard anyone enter the room and refused to look at the girl. "I'm on the clock," he mentioned.

One corner of Pendergast's lips twitched upward. "Ice water? A cold lemonade?"

"I'd like to get out of here just as soon as I am able," the man said, nodding. "Now…I was saying…yes. Right. There was a report," he said, scrolling through the data, "of a fender-bender-"

"If my driver managed to damage someone else's vehicle, then I will of course take full responsibility. And if you need to photograph my car.…"

"Which I'm certain is in mint condition," D'Agosta sighed. "Okay. Cars were reported swerving right and left almost as if they were clearing a path, and you decided to take advantage of this truly astonishing coincidence by speeding right through it and several stoplights, too."

"I was not driving. That was Proctor."

"Certainly. Yada yada, here's a weird one…people reported taking turns down streets they'd had absolutely no intention of going down."

Pendergast spread his palms apart. "It was utter pandemonium. I kept looking up, trying to see between the buildings, wondering if there was some huge threat or something terrorizing everyone into foolhardy behavior."

"You saw nothing."

"Correct."

Beneath his breath, the cop muttered, "Neither did anyone else." Then louder, "so you hit the bridge and the traffic is still crazy, but only on the level and side you happened to be traveling on."

The man nodded.

"And then what happens?"

"What happens?"

"Yeah. With the big black Mercedes they're still trying to recover from the river."

"It went airborne."

"And how the hell did that happen?"

"I'm certain I don't know." Pendergast leaned forward to lift a teacup D'Agosta hadn't noticed before. "It was traveling at excessive speeds."

"As were you, so I understand."

"Well anyone would want to flee the situation, given the nature of the circumstances. I mean, it was dangerous to be on the road at all, and then the same bizarre behavior starts taking place on a bridge?"

"There's no way it was any kind of a pursuit then?"

"Not intentionally. Obviously," he said, setting the cup back down carefully, "if they were taking advantage of any gaps in traffic and we happened to be doing the same.…"

"Right," D'Agosta sighed.

The lean man crossed his legs and placed his interlaced fingers around the top knee. "As I recall, the black car—A Mercedes, did you say?"

This received a roll of the eyes.

"Yes. It was speeding and behaving erratically also…it was several car lengths ahead of us when it tried to ride on the outer edge of traffic, as if there was enough room! It came back down and tried to merge, and then somehow it went airborne…there was a limousine involved and a large bus…and then, quite to my surprise, it managed to go flying off the bridge!" He shook his head. "Highly disturbing."

"Oh, yeah," said D'Agosta. "And then what happened?"

"Well, Proctor tried to brake the car to avoid a collision and I leaped out and ran to the outer railing to see if I could see any survivors in the water down below."

"Sure, sure, right," the other man said, jotting down details in his notepad, despising a hand-held communications device that wasn't designed for thick fingers. "And what did you see when you got there?"

"Well," Pendergast said, running a hand across his hair. "I nearly went over the edge myself in my haste!"

"But you didn't."

"You see me before you."

"Did anyone else go flying off the bridge?"

"Not that I saw. Why? Did someone attempt to help the driver of the Mercedes?"

D'Agosta sat staring at the silvery-eyed man, wondering if he'd ever hear the truth or if he'd be better off never knowing. "Ah, no. Two people said they thought they saw you…or some guy in a dark suit anyway, go vaulting off the railing and disappear."

"Was it a suicide?"

"I guess we'll know if the divers recover any odd bodies."

"The current is strong. They may want to search the banks farther downstream."

"Oh, good point, let me write that down," Vincent agreed, not writing anything. "And, then there's this." He fiddled with the phone, irritated that it wasn't easy to operate for anyone over nineteen, finally calling up what he was looking for on You Tube. He handed the phone to Pendergast who stared at it briefly.

"I don't see anything."

D'Agosta took it back and pressed the screen, activating the play function, then passed the device back.

Pendergast watched poor quality footage of what looked like a dark figure shooting up to the side of the bridge.

"There's another one. D'ya need to see it?"

"Does it look the same?"

Nodding.

The agent said, "That's rather demented, don't you think? Giving someone false hope that their loved one is somehow all right by playing footage of a suicide backward?"

"Oh!" Vincent grunted, accepting the phone back. "Yes, when you put it that way it seems absolutely sick!" He turned the phone off and returned it to his pocket. "What the hell is going on?"

Pendergast reached again for the tea.

"Where the hell did that come from? That table was empty when we walked in here!"

"Are you certain?"

"No!" The man readjusted himself in the chair and ran a palm down his face, composing himself. He said more calmly, "This place is becoming a home for way-out, wayward, wacky weirdos! I know you're like eccentric and all…but this…this kind of bull crap defies _science!"_

Pendergast drank and regarded the gold-green liquid he swirled lightly within the porcelain cup. "Have you made any headway on our new friend?"

Turning his face away, the man grumbled, "I _knew_ it…I don't know what the hell I know because I really don't know anything, but this is all somehow connected to her, isn't it?" He glared at the girl who stared back owlishly. "Except, how could it be? Because none of this makes any sense.…"

Another sip, and then, "You weren't able to find anything, were you?"

"No. Nothing. That hair sample won't be ready for another week or two." He leaned forward over his spread legs, elbows over his knees, hands clasped before him. "What _is_ she?"

"Some kind of…biological weapon," the slender man suggested, shaking his head.

"Several people grabbed footage of the two of you walking around on that bridge. They missed the whole…_rescue _thing-"

"Flying?"

"_No one can fly,"_ D'Agosta grunted testily. "What I'm saying is, she's no longer your secret. She's in the hands of the public now, the great social exposure unit. Whoever made her, whoever she belongs to—they're gonna be coming for her soon." He leaned back again. "And what I need to know is…what are you gonna do about it?"

He let his focus drift to her. She sat watching Vincent, and he knew a part of her didn't trust him even though she had graciously offered him his wished-for beer. Pendergast felt entirely safe with her even though he didn't fully understand her and wasn't certain he ever would. Somehow they had become friends, and this suggested to him that she _had_ to be human. She not only protected him no matter what, but was willing to do whatever it took to ensure the safety of those he cared about as well.

After arriving back at the mansion, he had asked Constance to make certain Tristram wasn't hungry, to suggest he bathe and don fresh clothing. The boy, bright eyed with excitement, grew very tired quickly, and so she had agreed to read to him until he fell asleep.

"I'm sorry I lost track of her," she had apologized. "I searched the entire house, and then I thought she must have run away."

"It's okay," he'd reassured her. "Everything turned out just fine."

To Proctor he'd mentioned having the car taken to a body shop for damage assessment. The man had nodded smartly and departed, only to return a moment later looking somewhat pale and saying, "Done."

Guessing what he'd meant, the agent had only nodded and allowed the frazzled chauffer to do as he pleased for the rest of the day in order to regain his normal sensibilities.

He'd examined his clothing, finding it spotless. It had smelled freshly cleaned and not of roadway or even salty air. Retiring to his room, he'd doffed his suit jacket and donned an old, rarely used lounging jacket, pairing it with slippers. Then he'd descended the stairs to find Amanda standing where he'd left her, a slight smile upon her features, prepared for whatever might come next.

He'd taken her down into the bowels of the property, requiring privacy, and then he'd perched upon a stool within his little medical-themed laboratory while she'd sat upon the examination table as before, watchful and patient.

For some time he found himself unable to express exactly how he felt. Then, finally, he simply allowed the words to flow.

"I don't know exactly what you did, nor how…but I am extraordinarily grateful for it. I…recently reached a point in my life when I thought it was no longer worth…the effort. Something I had treasured and lost was returned to me just as whole and wonderful as before, only to be cruelly extracted from my life yet again. You have shown me that the past is just that, and I do have something worth living for, something very dear and precious. When I nearly lost my son…I was willing to do anything to try and save him, even if it meant my sacrifice. I…despised you when you…you saved me," he said, still amazed at how it had occurred, "but then you showed me that I didn't have to go that far. I…am a very dark man," he admitted. "There are corners and shadows inside of me that even I prefer to ignore when I know it is to my benefit to expose them and properly clear them out. Your arrival in my life has presented me with challenges…." He hesitated, shaking his head. "I understand that I need not always attempt to maintain control, that things can and will work out whether I am forcing the issue or not. There are some things in life that are unexplainable—which I ought to know considering the life I have led—and there remains magic in those things that just happen, beyond any known laws, beyond any sane reason…." He rolled closer to lightly lay his hands upon her upper arms. "I want you to know that you are always welcome here. You are special. I'm afraid that word is inadequate…you are…a muse," he suggested, lifting his hands toward the ceiling, "some kind of an angel…or perhaps the most deadly and effective thing I have ever seen. I know that I will ultimately have to let you go…and after today it will likely be sooner than later. Oh, I hope your purpose is a noble one. The devastation I imagine you could cause otherwise…." He smiled at her and touched her hair. "You could make my life so much easier, everything I do go so much smoother." Pendergast chuckled lightly. "And yet…how can I keep you when I know there will be others asking questions and people undoubtedly attempting to spirit you away?"

He stood and bowed flamboyantly, casting an arm out to the side. "O spirit, spirit of benevolence, spirit of chaos, spirit of…dreams that walk beneath the sun. How say you, my good, dear friend? Will you remember me? Will you ever seek my company again?"

Head cocked to one side, she looked at him like he was crazy. She reached toward his chest and said, "You are a phoenix," as she made a fist.

He looked down and saw that she had hold of his modified family crest talisman, the one he wore upon a fine chain about his neck. His jacket remained neatly in place, his tie still knotted, his shirt buttoned to his throat…and yet there it was in her hand.

"Yes," he said softly, uncertain as to what he was agreeing to. There was indeed a phoenix on the metal disc. It was the one alteration he had made to the design to personalize it.

She smiled broadly, still holding it tightly.

He nodded, feeling wonderful without actually knowing why. "A phoenix. And you are a Quasar."

The smile melted and she became very serious. "You know then? Don't you? Where I go home to? From the bridge?"

Her chatter alarmed him. She sounded like she was about to depart too soon. "From the bridge? The one that we were on today? You…you live there?"

"No." She made a face. "Across the bridge? StarNet? ArtReal?"

"StarNet ArtReal." His eyebrows knitted. "They sound…almost like military code words. Were you created by the military? Do they own you?"

She gestured to the computer screen and he turned to see it was on, he was already logged in, and the Internet awaited.

He turned away to do a search on the words. He was actually beginning to grow accustomed to the surreal happenings surrounding her. Clearly she was possessed of some form of powerful telekinesis amongst other strange abilities. It was as if she could do anything in real life that one could do within one's dreams. ArtReal yielded sites about artists. StarNet was a foreign Internet provider among other things. If they were code words, they were unlikely to pop up in a regular keyword search. He added Quasar to the search, then all three words together and still nothing came up that sounded remotely connected to her. "Are you saying…that the place you came from is just over the bridge?"

She nodded vigorously.

"Do you want me to take you there?"

Her face fell. "Couldn't find it. Not here. This place is not home."

He racked his brain, trying to assist her. "What about…the cetacean room?"

"The what?"

"Where we were before you came here. Before you brought me to Rat Island?"

Her brow wrinkled. "That was just a dream."

He looked thoughtfully at her. "Are you somehow connected…to a dream research facility?"

She nodded. "ArtReal!"

"ArtReal is a dream research facility?"

"Yes!"

"And you…you definitely have something to do with dreams."

"Uh-huh!"

"Is that how you got here? We met…in our dreams?"

Now she shook her head. "Your dream. You needed help."

"How did you know I needed help?"

She gave a half-shrug, stopping herself in embarrassment. "Just knew."

"You just knew it. Are you psychic?"

Amanda looked at him strangely again.

"Or, you just knew it the way people sometimes just know things within their dreams? Like that music box…it does not exist anywhere in this house, you know. Yet, I was able to describe it to you…."

She nodded slowly.

"You can somehow travel through the dream realm. And…despite this being reality and not a dream, you retain all of your dream abilities, scientific theory be damned."

"Okay," she agreed.

He didn't know whether to believe her or not. She did foster that effect on him. "And, the people who…created you…they call you a Quasar?"

"One sixty-nine."

"You are experiment, prototype, soldier, something one sixty-nine."

"Quasar," she corrected.

"Quasar one sixty-nine."

"Yes."

Suddenly his face fell. "You mean there are at least one hundred and sixty-eight others like you out there?"

Now he faced his friend, Vincent D'Agosta and replied to his question with, "I am uncertain that anyone is actually looking for her nor any others like her. It may be that they were created to perform just as they are on their own-"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait a second. _They?_ You know for a fact that there are others like her out there?"

"I do not know for a fact," he replied calmly. "But it may be that she was sent out into the world for a specific purpose, or that she and others of her kind, if there are any, may have possibly escaped some scientific or military setting, and do you have any idea how difficult it is to get her to do anything other than what she desires at any given moment?"

The other man said, "Nope. I'm afraid I don't know, don't really wanna know. If she's a handful, then for all I care she is your handful, but I do know that you need to try and keep the damage down to a minimum if you don't want the mayor sending you a big fat bill."

Constance arrived in the doorway and stood waiting patiently until Pendergast acknowledged her. She approached the loveseat and the Quasar chose to sit on the half nearest her new friend. "Tristram seems fine, just a little tired," she said.

"Thank you," her benefactor told her.

"Is she okay with this?" D'Agosta indicated the woman with his thumb.

"Am I okay with what?"

"With me allowing Amanda to remain here for as long as she wishes."

"Well that would depend," she said, "on whether the tale Tristram told me was true or not."

Pendergast smiled. "I assure you that it was."

She made a face and withdrew within herself a tiny bit. "She's…_intriguing._ She _did_ save you. And him. But she did also disobey you…with fortunate consequences."

"Not for the guy driving the Mercedes," Vincent muttered.

Proctor walked by, then backtracked to announce that the Wraith was shiny and spotless inside and out. He lingered in the doorway, watching D'Agosta a little apprehensively.

"Every time I show up here, is the story just going to get weirder and weirder? People already think creepy things about you," he told his friend. "They don't like how everyone you're supposed to deliver due process to turns up conveniently dead. People are going to have a field day with this one, and my name's gonna get thrown into the mix. If I keep feigning innocence, I risk my job. This one's too big to sweep beneath the carpet. I have a harrowing suspicion it's only going to get worse."

Aloysius was actually uncertain if he could detach himself from the girl if he wanted to. He glanced her way worriedly. Was she _powerful_ enough to keep him and his loved ones out of harm's way indefinitely? Would someone come looking for her and threaten their lives to get her back? Was there a trick to banishing her or otherwise rendering her vulnerable? Was she a danger to the citizens of New York?

"I was wondering if you had tried her name for you in a search on the computer."

He blinked at Constance. "Forgive me, what was that again?"

"Her little name for you? The one you told me…where she strung your initials together?"

D'Agosta tried, "Axel P.? She's been calling you Axel?"

"Yes, although I don't know why. I told her I prefer Aloysius, and she already knows my full name."

"Axel," repeated Proctor thoughtfully, trying to think of something it might relate to.

"It's an anagram," Constance told them, "for Alex."

At that moment her eyes went very wide and she inhaled sharply. Proctor stared at her, then where she was staring and jumped. Amanda's eyes lit and her face broke into a huge grin of joy. "Alex!" she said, clapping her hands together sharply.

"Alex?" Vincent repeated, not getting the connection.

"Where the hell am I?" asked Alex, gripping the arms of the chair like it might take off like a roller coaster.

"_Jesus H.!"_ D'Agosta blurted, jumping so hard that his own chair hopped.

"_What have you done to him!"_ Constance nearly shrieked.

The stranger in the chair Pendergast had just occupied patted himself down, ending with his cheeks. "Done to me?" He blinked at the almost hysterical woman. "Get a hold of yourself lady, yer given me the heebie jeebies."

D'Agosta was holding onto his chair and whipping his head around.

Proctor stepped forward and snarled, "What have you done with him?"

"I ain't done _squat_," the man replied. He looked at Amanda. "Where the hell have you been?" He glanced around the room. "What the hell is this place?" She threw herself across the arm of the loveseat and flung her arms about his neck.

Proctor halted his advance, unwilling to tangle with the teen.

"Oh, so you're familiar with her, huh?" said the guy knowingly. He put his arms around her. "You been scarin' the hell outta these people? You gotta stop disappearing on me like that!"

Vincent was on his feet, drawing his weapon. Constance was about to ask the man a question, but was interrupted when he keyed in on the armed guy and quickly blurted, "Home, Kid! _Now!"_

There was no miniature thunderclap as displaced air collided back into the space they had just occupied. It was silent save for Constance's quick, shallow breaths. They all stared at the spot where Pendergast had been, where a total stranger had just been, and watched the seat cushion return to its normal puffiness. For several heartbeats no one moved. Constance began to shake and pressed a hand to her heart and another to her forehead. "Lie down," Proctor ordered hoarsely, rushing to help her recline upon the loveseat.

"But Aloysius," she told him, her voice soft and cracking. "No! _Aloysius!"_

"_What on earth just happened?"_ roared D'Agosta, gun drawn.

"I don't know," Proctor said shaking his head in agitation. "I don't know!"

"What on earth is all the ruckus?" came the Southern sweet tones of Pendergast as he rounded the corner from the hallway, disheveled, looking like he'd just awakened…from a hangover.

D'Agosta staggered back and laughed weakly. Proctor exhaled loudly and seemed to wilt with relief. Constance got up and banged her shin against the coffee table on her way to him, wanting to throw herself into his arms, but composing herself when she was close enough to register his bafflement.

"Is everyone all right?" he asked. "My heavens! You make enough noise to wake the dead!"

"What happened to _you?" _asked Vincent.

"Why…I just woke up." He glanced down at himself, then straightened with absurd dignity like a cat that didn't want you to know it had just climbed out of a well.

Constance stared at his attire. He was wearing the same outfit they had seen him in when they'd left the mansion to wait out the storms. "Where were you?" she asked.

"In my bed," he replied, his voice growing sharper with surprise.

"Just now?" Vincent asked.

"Yes. Have I missed something? Is there anything the lot of you would like to confess to me?"

Proctor tried, "What do you remember?"

"Remember? About what?" He checked his disheveled state and asked a little more meekly, "Was I knocked unconscious? Did one of you carry me to my bed?"

They all began talking to him at once, and while he attempted to restore order he received the impression that something very extraordinary had occurred and perhaps he had been out for longer than he thought. "Forgive me," he said loudly, placing a palm to his forehead. They all quieted down. "I have apparently lost time somehow. You all seem to be attempting to relate to me some story of which you claim I was a part of…but cannot recall."

Constance asked, "You don't remember Amanda?"

"Amanda…Amanda… Amanda who? Oh…no," he said to himself dismissively, then looked at them and chuckled. "I just had a very strange dream about a girl whose name happened to be Amanda, but that-"

"With black hair to here?" asked Proctor, turning to indicate the small of his back.

"Large pale blue eyes, and this tall?" Constance asked.

"Pale as a ghost?" Vincent suggested.

The man's jaw parted and he looked at them each in mild astonishment. "Then I could not have dreamed it… Will you stay, Vincent? I think we need to talk…."

"What's for dinner?" D'Agosta asked.

"I think we should order in," Constance said, turning toward the chauffer. "This may take awhile."


End file.
